


Some Body

by numot94 (futureplans)



Category: Red Velvet (K-pop Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Succubi & Incubi, F/F, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2019-11-13 13:49:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18032924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futureplans/pseuds/numot94
Summary: Joy is on a somewhat involuntary gap year straight out of college. The only thing that keeps her from growing bored out of her mind is her very strange and mysterious neighbour, who just wishes she'd mind her own business.





	1. Laundry

**Author's Note:**

> I've decided to write something for Joyrene because they have such a fun dynamic ^^ This is a side project, so I can't promise regular updates, but I will post each chapter as it becomes ready for human consumption and there shouldn't be a big delay between chapters either.

College laundry rooms are wild places. Unlike adults with steady jobs, it’s almost impossible to predict when college students will decide to do their laundry. They could do it on their 3-hour break between classes, which has slowly been driving them crazy since the beginning of the semester, or maybe in the dawn after an all-nighter, when it seems like the easiest thing they could do while still feeling productive and during which they will probably fall asleep. Most of the time, however, they do it whenever they’ve run out of clean clothes.

Of course, there is no way of telling when the students in your dorm complex will run out of clean clothes. It’s a stochastic process, with too many unknown variables to allow for precise estimates. And that means that your only option is to keep trying and hope you find an empty machine before you’re forced to attend class in your pyjamas. That or skipping all the parties to do your laundry on Saturday night. Nobody ever does their laundry on Saturday night.

So yes, it might be a little sad, but one of the best things about being out of college so far has definitely been the change in laundry room occupancy. She never has to worry about letting her clean clothes run out, because the washing machine is wonderfully free on any weekday before 6 pm.

Okay, so it’s not just a little sad. She’s well aware of that. But the thing is, all her friends from college have moved to their own corner of the country and are currently busy with their jobs, and she’ll only be in this town for about a year anyway, so there’s no point in going out to make friends. And yes, she should have thought about that when she let the deadline for graduate school applications go by because she was focusing on getting through the semester, but now it’s done, and she already hears that enough from her father, so there’s no point in beating herself up any further over it.

She’ll just have a boring year in one of her dad’s apartments and then she’ll get into graduate school and move on with her life. In the meantime, she’ll take her simple pleasures where she can find them, and if doing the laundry without being rushed is one of them, so be it.

But she must be more bored and lonely than she thought, because her first reaction upon entering the laundry room at 3 pm on a Tuesday and finding it occupied isn’t annoyance so much as pleasant surprise. It does help that the intruder is a beautiful woman who doesn’t look much older than her, a little short but absolutely stunning, even with her bare face and wearing an old flannel shirt and sweatpants.

If Joy were to describe herself, she wouldn’t begin with “insecure”. In fact, she doubts the word would come up at all, unless she was specifically describing her future prospects. She knows she’s pretty, has been complimented often enough on her beautiful eyes, plump lips, shapely figure. Still, standing here in front of a woman whose profile seems to have been shaped by the gods themselves, she does wish she was wearing something other than zebra-print leggings and a mustard-yellow crop top.

She could go back up to her apartment. Not to change her outfit, because a quick mental inventory assures her that she has nothing better to change into unless she wants to show up in her underwear, but just to pass the time until the stranger is done. The thing is, she’s bored, so why not hang around and make conversation?

“Hi,” she says casually, and apparently the woman didn’t notice her coming in because she jumps in place as soon as Joy speaks. She glances over, a hand raised to her chest like some old lady with heart palpitations, and studies Joy with slightly accusing eyes.

“Hello,” she replies slowly, then returns her attention to the clothes tumbling inside the washing machine. This is the point where a more self-conscious person might awkwardly pick up her dirty clothes and walk away, but Joy is no quitter.

“I’m new in the building, I haven’t met a lot of the tenants,” she explains with a winning smile that accomplishes absolutely nothing, since the woman doesn’t even turn to face her. “Anyway, I’m Joy. From apartment 5D.”

“Irene,” the woman intones with absolutely no feeling, still facing her laundry. She’s leaning heavily against the wall, not even reacting when Joy takes a few experimental steps into the room and moves to sit on top of the dryer. “5B,” she finally adds, seemingly remembering that Joy also volunteered that information.

“Oh, so we’re neighbours,” Joy remarks pleasantly, and somehow this startles Irene yet again, who turns to her with a pale face, like all the excitement has drained her. Irene studies her, although it’s hard to tell what exactly she might be thinking. She might just be wishing that she thought of sitting there before it was occupied. For a moment, Joy feels like she should offer her the seat, like she’s a frail old lady that just stepped into the bus.

Irene nods and returns her attention to the washing machine. This is silly, the woman mustn’t even be 30. At most, she’s hungover, or maybe sick. It would explain why she’s home doing her laundry in the middle of the afternoon and not out at her job.

“So, did you take the day off from work?” Joy decides to ask, because clearly this conversation will only happen if she makes it happen. For once, Irene isn’t surprised by her voice, but she doesn’t say anything either. She just shakes her head without making eye contact. “Then… do you work from home?” she tries again, and Irene denies it with another shake of her head.

That doesn’t leave a lot of explanations, and she feels like it might be a bit rude to simply ask outright whether the woman is unemployed. She taps her fingers against the top of the dryer as she thinks of what to do next, and she swears the corner of Irene’s lips begins to twitch in displeasure at the repetitive noise.

“I guess you’re between jobs, then?” she offers diplomatically. This time, Irene’s jaw definitely clenches, and when she turns to face Joy, it’s with a hardened glare that clearly indicates, as politely as possible, that she’s not interested in talking. This is the cue for Joy to give up the conversation and leave. But she’s bored, and annoying pretty women still beats sitting all alone in her apartment.

“How can you afford this place?” she asks with curiosity, not bothering to wait for Irene’s response to her previous question. The glare was clear enough. “Are you rich?” she continues gleefully, endlessly amused by Irene’s efforts not to roll her eyes.

“How can _you_ afford it?” the older woman finally points out, words still slow but now lined with a certain edge that Joy is petulantly proud of having caused. She doesn’t elaborate, although a slight nod at Joy that takes in her mismatched outfit and her dirty clothes in tow seems to suggest that Irene has deduced her similar state of unemployment.

“My dad owns the place,” she says simply, shifting in her seat. It’s not nearly as amusing when she’s the one being questioned and she’s eager to fix that issue, but Irene beats her to it.

“And you’re satisfied with mooching off of him?” she asks with a degree of casualness that doesn’t fit the bite in her words. For once, Joy is stunned into silence, and she can only watch as a glint of triumph flashes through Irene’s eyes. Then, the older woman is turning back to her laundry, posture slumping further as she crosses her arms.

Joy isn’t angry. She’s not the type to get angry at the drop of a hat. But she is… irked. She feels like Irene bested her in one lucky shot and, now that she’s been embarrassed like this, she can’t just sit around and keep making small talk. She can’t even accuse the older woman of rudeness, considering she was pretty rude herself.

Still, she doesn’t want to go home quite yet, so she sits in silence, studying Irene shamelessly while the woman’s full attention is on her own clothes, still spinning around inside the washing machine. She is one pretty woman. Her clothes are bulky, making it hard to picture the curves they conceal, not that Joy would do something quite so crude immediately after meeting someone. She focuses on the curves she can see, like the gentle slope of her nose and her delicate lips, not quite as full as Joy’s but lovely nonetheless.

And she’s so short. Joy has always had shorter friends, but Irene genuinely looks like she couldn’t look her in the eyes even if she stood on the tips of her toes. If Joy took the two or three steps that separate them and leaned over the older woman, Irene would have to tip her head back just to look her in the face. And if she wanted to kiss Joy, she’d have to pull her down, within reach of her own lips.

Irene shivers in her shirt, even though the air is warm enough that Joy, with stomach and arms exposed, doesn’t feel uncomfortable at all. The woman still looks very pale, so she might be sick after all. Joy taps her fingers against the dryer one last time, then jumps off it and picks up her laundry. Enough sitting in silence and fantasizing about the pretty woman in the laundry room. She’s not that lonely yet.

“I guess I’ll come back when you’re done. See you around, neighbour,” she announces to the room in general. She lingers, only half-hoping for a reply, but when she looks at Irene she finds that her head is leaning against the wall, her eyes closed, and she barely seems to acknowledge Joy. She really hopes Irene doesn’t throw up in the laundry room or something. That would just be gross.

(…)

Joy is bored. She did mention that, right? Because she is, so very hopelessly bored. It’s hard to go from a frantic end of semester, struggling to get all her papers and projects finished in time, to absolutely nothing. No work, no deadlines, no plans. Just a lot of waiting around for graduate school applications to open. And once she’s done with that, there’ll be some more waiting, this time for the results.

There are only so many times she can fine-tune her CV or stare at her motivation letter or work out which of her professors to contact for a letter of reference, factoring in probability of acceptance, overall opinion of her, delay between first contact and actual presentation of letter and how awkward it will be to explain to them why she’s skipping a year.

She even tried applying for a part-time job bartending at a place a few blocks away, but she doubts she’ll get it, with her complete lack of experience or knowledge in bartending. And in the meantime, she’s bored.

She’s met the nice couple in 5A a few times now, usually when she’s on her way back from the supermarket and they’re getting home from work. She’s also run into the old lady in 5C and struck up a tentative friendship based on helping her carry all her shopping bags into her home and get things from the top shelves. Still, since that day in the laundry room, she hasn’t seen Irene once.

Even more suspicious is the fact that neither of her neighbours seem to remember the woman from 5B until she describes her to the utmost detail. Then they nod thoughtfully, shrug and say that they don’t really cross paths. And these people have been living here for years, so just how rarely does Irene go out?

She won’t deny that she might not find this situation quite so mysterious and appealing if she weren’t so mind-numbingly bored. But she is, so very bored, and Irene is the only person in the building so far that isn’t gone all day. Even the old lady takes the bus every day to go take care of her daughter’s children. Yes, it will probably turn out that there’s no mystery at all, but it would still be nice to be Irene’s friend and have someone to hang out with before she goes insane.

So it’s her boredom, and the prospect of company sometime in her future, that have her devising the most ridiculous plan to visit Irene. Her reasoning is that Irene probably doesn’t want to be visited either way, so it doesn’t matter whether her excuse is airtight or very flimsy. In that case, why waste time coming up with a good one?

She knocks on the door of apartment 5B. There’s no answer, though she can clearly hear the sound of the TV when she presses her ear to the wood. She knocks again and still receives no answer. She’s pretty sure the volume of the TV actually goes up a little. Never one to give up easily, she spots the doorbell and rings it, producing a piercing sound that definitely can’t be ignored.

The TV goes silent and shuffling steps approach the door. It opens just enough for Irene’s eyes to peer at her, looking entirely unimpressed.

“Hey there, neighbour,” Joy says with forced cheer, completely ignoring Irene’s clear body language. “I was hoping to run into you around here, but I guess you’re more of a homebody, huh?” she carries on as Irene merely shifts in place. From the little Joy can see, she’s wearing just as casual an outfit as last time, so it must be her fashion taste and not merely a lack of options. This time, she’s in a different pair of sweatpants, along with a simple white t-shirt and an open hoodie over it.

“Anyway,” Joy finally adds once it becomes evident that Irene isn’t about to respond any time soon, “I think I got your mail by mistake?” she says innocently, waving around a clothing catalogue that she picked up at the nearest store.

Irene barely glances at it before she’s stepping away from the door, clearly intent on closing it. “That’s not mine,” she explains tersely, but Joy presses her foot against the door just casually enough to make it look accidental, effectively preventing it from shutting.

“Really? That’s weird, because I already asked everybody else on the floor and it’s not theirs either. Maybe you could just take a closer look?” she insists, waving the catalogue around like it would somehow make it more enticing. Irene has obviously caught on to her, and now they’re down to a contest of wills. It’s all a matter of who will crack first in this game of politely being impolite.

“It probably belongs to whomever lived in your apartment before you moved in,” Irene points out, and Joy can almost hear the eyeroll in her tired, dragging voice. Still, this means that she remembers what Joy told her, about having moved in recently. That’s a sign that she must be at least a little interested, right?

“Oh, that makes sense!” she exclaims, playing up the dumb act shamelessly. She leans a little closer, her foot pressing harder against the door so that it slides further open. “You wouldn’t happen to have their name or a forwarding address or something, would you? I’d be happy to wait inside the apartment if you need to go look for it.”

“It’s a catalogue,” Irene deadpans, apparently tired of the charade. Joy studies her blankly, trying very hard not to laugh in her face. Finally, the older woman puts on a transparently fake smile and tries again. “I don’t have their contact, I’m sorry, maybe you should try the landlord. Your father,” she adds pointedly, raising a perfectly sculptured eyebrow that distracts Joy for only a second before she’s back in control. Kind of.

“Oh, yeah, I guess that makes sense,” she agrees with a giggle, mostly to fill up the time while she thinks of something else to say. Irene’s eyebrow is still judgmentally arched and the smile on her lips is only growing more tense and all of this is very effectively derailing Joy’s train of thought. Irene really is a beautiful woman, even when she just looks increasingly annoyed. Why does she keep looking more annoyed as the silence stretches?

“Actually, I’m feeling a little thirsty,” Joy blurts out, coughing a bit for dramatic effect. She can see the strain in Irene’s face as she resists making any snide comments. “Could I have a glass of water?” she requests with her most convincing smile. She almost bats her eyelashes, but it might be a bit too much.

“You live across the hall,” Irene replies, not even trying to keep the hostility out of her voice.

“I locked my keys in the apartment,”,she explains, in what is possibly the most blatant lie she’s said this entire conversation. “I’m waiting for my dad to drop by with the spare, but he won’t be around for a few hours.”

They both know it’s a lie, and her little apologetic shrug is little more than further provocation. This isn’t about catching her in her own falsehoods, of course. It’s about the fact that she won’t stop trying until Irene gives in, so the real question is how much badgering Irene can take.

The older woman sighs and she knows she’s won. She’s already grinning widely before Irene has even stepped backwards, obediently following her around as she pulls out a glass from a cupboard and fills it with tap water. Then Joy stands drinking by the sink and Irene drags herself to the sofa and drops on it heavily, like she couldn’t handle another moment of standing.

“What do you want?” she hears a weak voice ask from the sofa. She finishes her drink and puts down the glass, stepping around the furniture to sit across from Irene.

“I’m bored,” she says simply, the grin still on her face as she takes off her shoes and brings her feet up to sit sideways, facing the older woman.

“Read a book,” Irene replies, a hand draped over her face. This time Joy can’t help laughing at her dramatic affectation of suffering, and Irene is quick to drop her hand and fix with her an unamused glare. “Is annoying me that entertaining, then?”

The accusing words remind her that she would like to befriend the only other hermit in the building, rather than simply antagonize her, so she tries to compose her features into something a bit less amused. “Right, sorry, no. I mean, a little, maybe. But it would be more entertaining to talk to you,” she offers honestly, bracing herself for another glare.

Instead, Irene looks away, biting her lip slightly. The action draws Joy’s eyes irresistibly, but the older woman seems to notice instantly, looking towards her with a piercing gaze. “Oh, you’d like to talk to me?” she asks with the slightest hint of sarcasm, and Joy genuinely wonders for a second whether she can read her mind.

“Well, yeah,” she continues uncertainly, ignoring any insinuations Irene might have made. “I don’t really know anyone in town and, uh, you always seem to be on your own, so maybe you’d like some company? Every once in a while?” she elaborates, trying her best not to sound too imposing.

“And if I don’t?” Irene ripostes. She’s looking away again, this time appearing less hesitant and more distracted. Like she’s already over the conversation. Her perfect features, together with her distant demeanour, make her look like a statue come to life.

“Nobody wants to be alone all the time, right?” Surely even statues get lonely. Especially ones that aren’t just works of art, ones that are also human. And after all these weeks, Joy begins to notice that Irene still looks sick. Pale, languid, tired out by something as simple as talking. She slowly slides down the sofa, figure slumping almost imperceptibly as Joy watches her.

And still, Irene only shrugs. Like she genuinely doesn’t care. “Are you sick?” Joy blurts out before she can stop herself, nearly shuffling closer to Irene but stopping herself as the older woman’s head whips around to face her in a movement more vigorous than Joy had thought she was capable of.

She seems… surprised? Like she’d expected it not to show. Joy isn’t sure how that could possibly work, since the woman practically slumps against every surface she can find and can’t even muster up the energy for a conversation. As if to demonstrate this point, Irene goes deathly pale and her eyes slip shut for a moment as her body catches up with the sudden motion.

“Not exactly,” she mumbles after a moment, surprising Joy by answering at all. The shock grows as she crawls closer, until her hand rests on Joy’s. Then she gazes into her eyes, and Joy can only gaze back, momentarily tongue-tied. “I’d like you to go now,” Irene whispers, her breath drifting across the short space between them and hitting Joy’s face like a powerful drug.

At once, all she wants is to satisfy Irene’s every wish. If the older woman wants her to leave, who is she to argue? She immediately gets up to her feet, encouraged by Irene’s pleased smile. She walks herself to the door, hand reaching for the knob mechanically. Turning around to shut it behind her, she gives the room one last glance. She finds Irene as white as a sheet, sprawled across the sofa, eyes closed and brow furrowed as her fragile chest rises and falls under each of her deep breaths.

Then Joy shuts the door and goes home.


	2. Discoveries

Joy can’t get the image of that feeble, barely conscious Irene out of her head. No matter how much she thinks about it, she can’t understand how she could possibly leave the woman like that, looking halfway to death. Yes, Irene told her she wasn’t sick, or at least not exactly, but it’s hard to imagine anything else after a sight like that.

She needs to see her again, make sure she’s alright. Not to mention that she didn’t even get to probe the original mystery she’d intended to solve: how exactly Irene can afford to live in this apartment, supposedly for so many years, with no apparent source of income. Clearly, there are many reasons why she should go knock on Irene’s door and invite herself in for another afternoon chat. So why can’t she get herself to do it?

It’s like, all of a sudden, the mere fact that Irene doesn’t want her in her apartment has become enough of a reason for her not to go in there. It’s weird, but she can’t shake it off. This leaves her with very few options, or just one, really. The only other place she’s ever seen Irene, beside her apartment, is the laundry room.

And that is why, somehow, Joy finds herself staking out the laundry room and feeling like she has truly reached rock bottom. From a flourishing, sociable person with a good head on her shoulders, she has become a stalker. A cute one, sure, but that only reduces the creepy factor by so much.

She’s sitting on the washing machine with a book, which is indeed an effective method to stave off boredom, although it pales in comparison to a conversation with Irene, when her target finally drops by. She has to admit that it’s a little funny how Irene nearly turns around and walks back out, only stopping herself when Joy begins to giggle behind her book.

“What,” the woman demands, and it barely sounds like a question, but there is more exasperation than hostility in her voice and that is how Joy knows that she’s getting under her skin. She doesn’t fight the smile that springs to her lips, letting her tongue poke out as she flips the page.

“What do you mean, what?” she asks teasingly. “I’m just reading my book.” She raises it for emphasis, quirking her brow at the same time. Irene doesn’t hold back the eyeroll this time.

“In the laundry room,” she points out tonelessly, clearly not invested in the argument, given that she’s already crouching down to shove her clothes into the washing machine. In her way, of course, are Joy’s legs, dangling down from the machine.

“Well, some of us can’t stay cooped up in our apartments all the time,” Joy explains with a playful lilt that contrasts oddly with Irene’s monotone words. She leans forward, hanging on precariously as she opens the machine door for Irene. “Why, is my presence so very distracting?” she adds with a wink that Irene refuses to acknowledge.

“Nothing could be as distracting as those hideous zebra-print leggings,” the older woman replies, and it would be a lot more biting if it weren’t for that hint of teasing under all the layers of nonchalance. Joy grins as she tallies up another victory.

While Irene programs the machine, Joy carefully stretches her legs and jumps down to stand by her side. She’s caught by surprise when the older woman gets up and steps towards the exit as quickly as her weak body allows. Entirely by instinct, Joy reaches out a hand to grip her wrist.

“Wait,” she calls out simultaneously, grip loosening as Irene stops in her tracks and throws her a confused, yet definitely not pleased look. “Are you okay? You looked really bad when I left,” she blurts out, anxious to ease her concern, or maybe just eager to chat at least a bit before Irene disappears again.

Irene sighs, makes a show of adjusting the sleeve of her oversized shirt. “Are you really going to keep following me like this?” she asks, sounding strangely blasé at the thought of acquiring a brand-new stalker. One that is pretty easy on the eye, admittedly, but once again, that doesn’t completely compensate for the fact that it’s a stalker. “Can’t you just get a hobby or something?”

Joy shows off her book again. “I tried reading, but it was kind of boring,” she jokes, not getting much of a reaction.

With another deep breath, Irene’s face is cleared of all traces of playfulness or even annoyance. Suddenly, she just looks serious, her eyes seeming to bore right through Joy. “I know you’re just curious,” she points out, her voice sounding nothing more than tired. “You don’t really care about me or my well-being.”

Joy can’t exactly deny that she hasn’t come to Irene with the purest motivations. That must have come across clearly enough, considering how she’s behaved with her. But it does sting a little that not a bit of her genuine interest shone through her actions. Was she really that insensitive or is Irene simply refusing to let anyone in?

She tries to reach for the older woman’s hand, but she pulls it out of reach before Joy can even finish her gesture. “I’m sorry if that’s what it looked like, I really am,” she begins uncertainly, only encouraged by the fact that Irene hasn’t left yet. “But I do care. If you’re suffering and there’s anything I can do to help, even just being there for you, I want to know, so I can do it.”

Irene’s jaw clenches. That’s a good sign. That’s indecision. Then she’s walking again, right out of the room, and Joy’s heart falls to her feet. “Well, are you coming or not?” the older woman requests without looking back, and Joy follows at once.

(…)

They’re back on Irene’s sofa. Usually, Joy would expect the hostess to present her with some sort of warm drink, coffee or tea, but instead she simply flops down onto the cushions as soon as she arrives at the apartment.

“I can tell you the truth, but you won’t like it,” Irene says after a pause during which she only takes deep breaths and looks at nothing in particular. She straightens her neck to fix her eyes on Joy’s. “I mean it, you won’t,” she insists, looking a little adorable as her eyebrows raise in emphasis.

“Tell me,” Joy replies simply, knees already gathered in front of her and both hands resting on top of them. Irene snorts like she expected nothing else.

“Right, I don’t know why I thought that would work,” she admits easily. “People always want to know until they know,” she adds with an unamused half-smile. Joy doesn’t say anything, only taps her fingers together as she waits for Irene to elaborate.

“I’m a succubus,” she finally says, and it’s so far from anything Joy expected, which was more along the lines of terminal illnesses and generous cash settlements from the guilty parties, that she can only blink in surprise.

“Excuse me, a what?” she asks dumbly, even though she is familiar enough with the word from pop culture.

“A desire demon,” Irene helpfully provides. “We feed on sexual energy and it gives us some abilities humans don’t have.” Hearing someone say ‘humans’ like she doesn’t belong to that particular species is far creepier than Joy could have imagined. Not that she’s ever given the situation much thought.

“Us? Plural?” is the first question that Joy can grasp in the middle of the utter confusion scrambling all her thoughts.

“Yes, Joy, I’m not the only succubus in the world,” Irene deadpans like she’s just asked the most ridiculous question. It’s a bit rude of her to expect Joy to know anything about succubi, but she’s honestly too baffled to linger on it for long. “Anyway, we have the ability to sway humans’ minds with our touch and I use that to stay in this apartment for free. That’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it?” she carries on, seemingly convinced once more that Joy is only interested in her out of curiosity.

Then again, Joy is only interested in one thing right now, and that is getting out of this situation. “Right. Cool. You’re insane,” she gasps out with a slightly frantic smile, sliding backwards on the sofa as Irene begins to approach her, just like last time.

As the woman comes closer, she can’t help the way her body freezes in place, and she watches helplessly as one of those small hands comes to rest on hers. She eyes the place of contact with a shaking gaze, but Irene’s voice draws her irresistibly to seek her eyes. “Do you have your wallet with you?” she asks in a soothing whisper, and Joy nods wordlessly. “Pull it out and give me all your money,” she requests sweetly, every one of her words making so much sense that Joy doesn’t even question the demand.

Her free hand awkwardly fishes her wallet out of her jacket pocket, slipping it open and collecting every bill before handing it out to the beautiful woman in front of her, who watches her actions with a benevolent smile. “Never mind, I don’t want it anymore,” Irene says brusquely, and the spell is broken. Joy blinks in confusion, studying the cash she was about to hand over to Irene for no reason other than that she asked.

And that does sound very much like that touch thing she was talking about, doesn’t it? Just like last time, when she asked Joy to leave. But just like last time, Irene is now slumped against the corner of the sofa, white as a sheet and breathing with difficulty.

“So you’re a succubus,” Joy accepts with some difficulty, especially when Irene can only muster up a weak nod in response. “Honestly? If this is how you get after using your powers, then it’s not very impressive.” She leans over to pick up Irene’s arm, then lets it go and watches as it drops uselessly to the sofa. Are all succubi this weak?

“I’m not… your typical succubus,” Irene admits through gritted teeth. The colour slowly returns to her cheeks, though it’s not much of a change.

“You’re worse?” Joy offers, her mouth getting ahead of her. Then again, a little friendly teasing might help Irene recover faster. Nothing moves one to action like wanting to prove someone wrong.

“I’m underfed,” the older woman spits back, clearly offended. Joy is about to make another joking comment, when a thought hits her. In all the time she’s spent at the building, she’s never seen Irene go out. Not only that, but her neighbours barely know her. In fact, it’s like they’ve nearly forgotten her existence. So, if nobody ever goes in or out of Irene’s apartment, how does she feed?

“How underfed?” Joy asks suspiciously. One of Irene’s eyes pops open and she studies Joy with an almost apologetic expression.

“Very?” she offers cautiously. Joy nearly smacks her arm at the confession, but refrains out of fear of what even the gentlest impact would do to this woman that seems like she’s made out of porcelain.

“Isn’t that dangerous?” she asks instead, the affront clear in her voice. Irene has recovered enough to sit up straight, so she slowly moves back to her original position, opening both eyes and studying Joy with superficial contempt that clearly hides embarrassment, like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

“Our need to feed isn’t like human needs to eat or drink or even breathe. All of those have a time limit, although on different time scales,” she explains calmly. “In our case, not feeding never leads to death. It just makes us progressively weaker. And it doesn’t feel great, either. It’s a bit like if you could hold your breath forever but that pressure in your lungs never stopped building,” she compares helpfully, filling Joy with empathetic panic at the horrible sensation.

“How did this happen?” she immediately demands, confused at how Irene could let herself get so weak that she couldn’t even move around without effort. “Did someone trap you or something? Keep you from feeding all this time?”

Irene’s face contorts with childlike embarrassment once more and oh, she wouldn’t be that ridiculous, would she? “I did it,” she admits reluctantly. Really, does this woman have no survival instincts? “I just… I don’t like crowds or noise or… people,” she lists, almost looking contrite. “And I started putting off feeding more and more and it turns out after this one very unpleasant period, the feeling more or less plateaus,” she concludes with a satisfied nod, like she isn’t talking about how she deliberately starved herself because she doesn’t like going out.

“Okay, I changed my mind. You’re a succubus _and_ insane,” Joy concludes with a shake of her head, before remembering something that she should have probably thought of before. Something that will definitely change how she feels about Irene not feeding. “How, uh, how does feeding affect… humans?” she asks, feeling a little awkward about her own use of the word.

Irene shrugs carelessly. “Depends on how much you take. They could be asleep for a few hours if you take too much.” Joy lets out a sigh of relief. Okay, good, no murder. That’s nice to know. One less thing to worry about, at least.

“Alright, so how do we do this? I feed you and then you can go back to normal? You look pretty weak, will I get you strong enough to leave the house?” she fires off in succession, leaning a little closer to Irene, who immediately shuffles backwards.

“Oh, no, I don’t think so,” the older woman ripostes, catching Joy entirely by surprise. “I’m fine like this. No feeding,” she insists firmly, arms crossed as she sets her jaw. She looks utterly nonthreatening, like an angry little doll.

“No feeding?” Joy asks incredulously, trying again to move closer and this time getting pushed off by Irene’s foot on her shoulder. “So what’s the plan? Wasting away in here?”

“I’m not wasting away,” Irene argues, nodding towards the TV. “I’m watching Netflix. There are a lot of interesting documentaries,” she explains, somehow not realizing how she sounds like the saddest person in the world.

“So what you’re telling me is that Netflix is literally the only thing you’re currently living for,” Joy sums up, raising an eyebrow as Irene only nods. “And when you get bored? Or you watch everything on it?” she adds, since she can’t be sure which is more likely to happen first.

Irene shrugs, entirely unbothered. “I’ll get someone to banish me,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. The utter lack of understanding must show on Joy’s face, because she elaborates without any need for prompting. “Demons aren’t born and we don’t die. We’re summoned into the human plane, sometimes by misguided humans but mostly by fellow demons, and then we leave it when we’re banished.”

Joy barely processes her words before she’s hit by another wave of incredulity. “You’re watching Netflix and waiting for death?” she nearly shrieks out, only lowering her volume out of fear that someone might overhear, though she’s quite sure that nobody is home right now. “I think not feeding messed with your brain. I think you’re depressed, or the demon version of depressed. This isn’t normal.”

“Look, Joy,” Irene says soothingly, drawing her attention. “I’m glad you’re fine with me being a succubus, and you can come by and talk to me every once in a while, if you still want to, but I’m not going to change my mind, so don’t bother trying,” she warns her. Joy isn’t discouraged in the least, but she nods along, agreeing to drop the subject for now.

They sit in more or less pleasant silence, Irene clearly relieved to be able to sit back and breathe easily without having to make the effort of speaking. This really isn’t a sustainable situation for her. “So…” Joy begins awkwardly, trying to get back into a conversation before Irene falls asleep or something. “What other powers do succubi have? Besides the touch thing,” she asks with genuine curiosity.

“Hmm?” Irene replies lazily, her eyelids drooping as she studies her. “Oh, well, we also have superhuman strength,” she begins, and is immediately interrupted by Joy’s sceptical snort. She pauses to glare at the younger woman until she is silent once more. “And we’re able to read people’s sexual auras. Whether they’re attracted to us, essentially,” she explains helpfully. She lets her eyes slip closed, unaware of the realization hitting Joy at that very moment.

She was right! Well, not entirely right, not in the sense that she accurately predicted that Irene could read minds, but she was definitely in the vicinity. That time at her apartment, when she focused on Irene biting her lip, the woman knew right away. And before that, in the laundry room, when she thought of kissing Irene and the older woman shivered… That wasn’t a coincidence, was it? That was Irene reacting to her attraction!

This gives her an idea, and maybe it’s not a great one, but Irene can make her do whatever she wants at any time with a single touch, so it’s only fair that Joy explores the weapons she has at her own disposal. She gazes at Irene, who is leaning back with closed eyes and furrowed brow, and lets all her concentration fall on those slightly parted lips. She tries to imagine what it would feel like to kiss them, to brush her tongue along their soft surface and have them part for her, inviting her inside that warm mouth.

Irene’s eyes open. She studies her with displeasure. “What are you doing?” she asks testily, a slight jitter in her voice betraying the effect Joy’s thoughts are having on her. It’s working. She slides closer, not close enough to touch the succubus but almost. Irene doesn’t move.

“Me?” she wonders with all the innocence she can muster. “I’m not doing anything. Why, does it feel like I am?” she adds playfully, amusement only growing at Irene’s weak attempt to glower at her. Her eyes soon flutter closed as Joy returns her focus to Irene’s lips, before considering what it would feel like to run her hands down her arms, all the way to her waist and then back up, under her shirt and straight over warm, responsive skin. How the muscles in Irene’s stomach would contract as she drew her nails across the unmarked expanse, then paused by the waistband of her sweatpants. How she would lift her up to pull her sweatpants off with a single motion.

“Stop it,” Irene tries again, but she should have realized that it would be a mistake to talk, because her voice is far too shaky and faint to be convincing. On the contrary, the clear evidence of her effect on Irene only makes Joy’s arousal grow, causing Irene to shudder as her hands ball into fists and clench tightly, knuckles white and bloodless.

Joy comes closer, meeting no resistance from the woman in front of her, who seems too overcome by feeling to do anything other than lay there and watch her with poorly-masked lust. She moves to straddle her right leg, left hand leaning against the back of the sofa for support as the right slowly moves down the row of buttons on Irene’s shirt, undoing them one by one. Her hands are shaking, but not nearly as much as Irene’s, who remains frozen in place, taking in breaths in short, unsteady gasps.

As expected, there is no other layer under the shirt. Only Irene’s bra and a stomach that seems too perfect to resist. Without much thought, Joy’s hand lands on it, gently feeling it shudder under her touch. She moves up, very slowly, letting her fingers graze the underside of Irene’s bra before they cup it fully, kneading into the soft flesh underneath with pleasure.

Curving her back, she lets her mouth land on Irene’s neck, which she kisses and nibbles with care, afraid to bruise the delicate skin. Her other hand continues to grope Irene, the flood of sensations overwhelming her with arousal and desire. Underneath her, Irene remains immobile, chest rising and falling in rhythm with her shallow breaths.

She’s not just immobile. She’s almost unnervingly still. Joy begins to feel uncomfortable with the situation. Did she cross a line? Did she force herself on Irene? Maybe it was wrong of her to disregard the woman’s wishes, even if they sounded so unhealthy. In the end, it’s still her choice.

She pauses her kissing, letting her head move away from Irene’s neck and up where she can face her. Her eyes are screwed shut, her brow tightly furrowed. Guilt settles heavily in Joy’s stomach and she pulls back her hand at once. Still, it doesn’t get far, because it’s immediately caught in Irene’s grip, the older woman’s hand moving faster than humanly possible. And she’s stronger, much stronger than Joy would have imagined, as she guides her hand back to its original position.

“Don’t stop”, she whispers breathlessly, proving all of Joy’s fears wrong with the simple request. So she doesn’t stop.


	3. Regrets

After making that single demand, Irene returns to her immobile state, hands dropping to her side once more, although this time they don’t ball into fists. Instead, they dig into the fabric of the sofa cushions like they want to claw right through it, a feat that doesn’t seem so impossible now that Joy has sampled the strength hidden in those frail-looking limbs.

Still, even though she is frozen under Joy’s caresses, she is far from unresponsive. Small whimpers begin to escape her lips as Joy’s hand clenches around her breast, growing a little louder once she attempts to pinch Irene’s nipple through her bra. The sound throws waves of pleasure through Joy’s body and her hand presses down almost convulsively.

She shifts to settle her weight more fully on Irene’s leg, so that she no longer needs her left hand to support herself. Her newly-freed hand snakes around the older woman’s back to unhook her bra, not bothering with taking it off and simply travelling back around to join the other hand in cupping Irene’s breasts.

Irene’s eyes are still screwed shut, her teeth pressing down on her lower lip whenever she’s not opening her mouth to let out a moan. Somehow, the fact that she won’t move only encourages Joy to make up for it with her own enthusiasm, and she presses herself down against Irene’s thigh without much conscious thought, the pressure weak but still electrifying.

As she rolls Irene’s nipples between forefinger and thumb, the older woman’s gasps and whimpers become almost strangled, her brow furrowing deeper in desperation. Ever the compassionate individual, Joy decides she’s had enough teasing and shifts off Irene’s leg to pull down her pants, not missing the way her eyes pop open with displeasure when Joy’s body is no longer pressed against her.

She’s quick to return, running her hand down Irene’s leg soothingly, then up with slow purpose. Her skin is cold, but it seems to warm under Joy’s touch, making her want to run her hands through every inch of Irene. Still, that thought will have to wait, because at the moment there is one place her hand desperately needs to be, and Irene probably agrees, considering the way her eyes are fixed on her with breathless anticipation.

She slides her fingers inside Irene’s underwear, her own throbbing arousal only growing at the older woman’s sharp inhale and the way she seems to forget how to breathe for a moment. Does she even need to breathe? She’ll think about that later, when she isn’t so preoccupied with how wet Irene is and how her fingers glide right through her length to the sound of Irene’s increasingly needy gasps.

There is a wonderful pressure against her core and she realizes that Irene is pushing her leg up against her, an action that couldn’t be anything other than intentional when the older woman has barely moved a muscle since Joy began touching her. She rocks against her gratefully, and it is a testament to how long it’s been since she last had sex that even through two layers of fabric, the sensation is powerful enough to have something coiling at the pit of her stomach.

She continues rocking as her fingers push inside Irene, her thumb quickly adjusting to flick against her clit. The action causes Irene’s moan to stutter and die out as she only sits there, mouth hanging open, breath rattled and wheezing. Joy’s speed picks up, her hips shifting to rock harder against Irene as her fingers slip out of the older woman to focus on her clit, drawing circles against it with increasing intensity.

The coiling in her stomach grows tighter and tighter, the sensation building up to a single point. She tries to slow down, to focus on touching the woman underneath her, but Irene’s hands are suddenly on her hips, guiding her movements, digging into her waist almost by reflex. She moves her fingers faster, trying to keep the circles steady while Irene’s hands clench and release in time with them, until the older woman’s body goes entirely rigid, just as everything inside Joy unravels in a mind-shattering burst of pleasure, her hips riding out the orgasm with a few more shuddering movements before she goes still.

She shifts off of Irene, only now realizing how her left hand has been gripping the older woman’s shoulder so tightly that her fingernails have marked the skin with little red crescents. Still, Irene doesn’t look bothered in the least. In fact, she looks better than she ever has, a healthy blush on her cheeks and eyes bright with life. Even her hair looks shinier.

She looks beautiful, Joy thinks distractedly, her mind growing hazy as she curls up on the sofa, feeling so warm and comfortable and relaxed. Her eyelids droop, though she fights it stubbornly, not wanting the vision in front of her eyes to disappear.

When Irene moves towards her, she smiles happily, eager for human warmth and for soft arms to wrap around her and lull her to sleep. Instead, she is pulled to her feet, which she protests with a wordless whine that only increases in pitch as Irene studies her with an amused smile. She wants to fight it, but the older woman’s grip on her is just as gentle as it is unbreakable, holding fast even when Joy leans all her weight on her small frame. Finally, she gives up and lets herself be carried to the front door.

“You should rest,” she tries weakly once it becomes clear that Irene is leaving the apartment with her in tow. Her concern only elicits a chuckle, which causes her brow to furrow in displeasure. Well, excuse her for caring.

“I need to go get my laundry,” Irene reminds her kindly, and her petulant irritation fizzles away into nothing. She mumbles out a “mmkay” and allows Irene to walk her down the hallway, stopping in front of apartment 5D. She remembered where she lives, which shouldn’t fill Joy with as much gratitude as it does, but in her half-asleep state she has become very easily impressed.

After some fumbling with her keys, she is safely deposited inside her apartment, sprawled across her unmade bed, where she falls asleep before Irene has even left the room.

(…)

It’s possible that she’s made a mistake. It’s hard to tell, because nothing changes, so it might just be Irene’s natural temperament, but she’s almost certain that if Irene wasn’t mad at her, then she would have tried to make contact before now.

And there’s the fact that she continues to have no guests over or ever leave the house, which is understandable at first, but eventually leaves Joy wondering just how often a desire demon should feed. Is it every other day? Once a week? Once a month? She has no idea when she should stop giving the woman distance and start being concerned for her well-being.

Then again, maybe she should think of her own well-being first. Her next-door neighbour is a demon! Sure, the most she’s done with her powers so far is kick Joy out of her apartment and make her take a nap, but it doesn’t change the fact that she does have those powers. Who knows what she could use them for? Not to mention the fact that they’re responsible for Irene living in one of Joy’s dad’s apartments for free, but he can afford it, so it doesn’t bother her too much.

The older woman also mentioned superhuman strength, and she did manage to carry a semi-unconscious Joy without much effort, so it seems that she wasn’t exaggerating. Is it really a good idea to befriend someone who could bench-press her? Especially considering that Joy has an unhealthy inclination to annoy people for her own amusement and Irene has been a victim of it a few times already.

And she’s a demon. Powers aside, that’s weird all on its own. She refers to people as humans, which is… well, not dehumanizing, obviously, but something like that. Demeaning, maybe. It’s not very encouraging, that’s for sure.

Maybe Joy should stick to befriending the nice old lady in 5C; she always invites her in for tea and she has nice butter cookies, the kind with sugar on top. And during the day, when her only option for company is Irene, she can go out somewhere. There are a few parks near the apartment building, maybe one of them is nice enough to hang out in, at least until it gets too cold to be out all day.

She doesn’t really want to think about what she’ll do when it does get too cold. Possibly pick up a hobby or follow in Irene’s footsteps and become addicted to Netflix. She’ll figure it out when the time comes. In the meantime, she’ll go check out the parks.

The nearest one is twenty minutes away on foot, and Joy arrives to find that it is exactly like any other park. There’s grass, trees, benches, old people feeding birds and not much else. The sky is gloomy and overcast, threatening rain, but she stubbornly sits down anyway, determined to make the most of her outing.

She lets her thoughts disperse, focusing on the sights and sounds around her and letting all reflections become abstract and diffuse. The weak sunlight that makes it past the thick cover of clouds casts everything in a greyish hue, all colours a bit washed out, but it does nothing to the melodious calls of the birds in the nearby trees. Their chirps and trills are as clear and vibrant as ever, and eventually Joy closes her eyes to let everything but the chaotic symphony fade away.

It feels nice. Soothing. She has no idea how much time passes as she simply sits on that bench, but eventually a wonderful warmth starts spreading through her body and she realizes that the sun is shining down on her, the sky clearing little by little.

She pops open one eye, experimentally, and finds that the park is growing more populated. Now there are a few hurried parents walking home with their children, and the bench across from her is occupied by a teenage couple shyly holding hands.

She wonders how long it’s been since Irene has been outside like this. Not just a run to the nearest store for laundry detergent and food. Does she eat food? Maybe just the detergent, then. But how long has it been since she went outside for fresh air and warm sunlight and to feel like she’s a part of the world and not just a person locked inside a tiny apartment?

It’s annoying, because Joy is supposed to be taking advantage of her lovely afternoon to get Irene off her mind, but all she can think is that she wishes she could talk to her, convince her to leave the house. Nobody could want to spend the rest of their life watching Netflix in a dark room if they remembered what it felt like to spend a few minutes in a park like this, right?

She gets up with a defeated sigh just as a child squeals and jumps straight into a nearby fountain, splashing her displeased mother. She can’t help a smile at the sight, though she tries her best to conceal it as she helps the poor woman chase the little girl around the fountain, finally succeeding in pulling her out when they split up to corner her.

She walks the short distance back to her building with rolled up sleeves, letting her wet forearms dry in the last few rays of the setting sun. It’s not a particularly cold day, but she’s still pleased to be back inside and away from the breeze that seems to pierce her drying skin.

She’s just changed into a dry pair of pants, absently wondering what she’ll cook for dinner, when she hears the elevator door open through the thin walls of her apartment and quickly rushes to the front door to see who has arrived. It’s Mrs. Kim from 5C, slowly picking up her shopping bag and seeming to bend under its weight, so Joy walks out with a pleasant grin and immediately relieves her of the load.

“Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Kim says with her usual placid smile, shuffling to her apartment with unhurried steps after quickly patting Joy’s arm in acknowledgment. “Everything’s always running out in this house, I feel like I go shopping every day.”

She pauses to rummage in her bag, looking for her keys, and Joy puts down the groceries as she waits, although they’re not particularly heavy. She has a feeling that the reason Mrs. Kim is always going shopping is because she can only carry a few items at a time. “Why don’t you let me know next time you go to the supermarket? I’ll go with you and we can carry more stuff between the two of us,” she offers diplomatically.

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly impose on you like that,” Mrs. Kim protests with her weak voice, holding the door open to usher her in. Joy walks ahead to set the bag down in the kitchen while the old lady locks up, always cautious about home invaders. “I’ll talk to my daughter about driving me there this weekend, then I can stock up on everything and I’ll be set for a few weeks.”

She empties the bag, putting any perishables in the fridge right away. Mrs. Kim shuffles closer and reaches for a tea box. “Would you like something to drink, dear?” she offers sweetly, bringing the box with her as she opens the cupboard over the sink and pulls out two mugs. She never bothers with a teapot, always heating the water in the microwave, but it’s more about the company than the drink, so Joy doesn’t mind.

She doesn’t even bother nodding, since the old lady is already filling the second mug from the tap and placing a tea bag inside. While the microwave hums, slowly heating their drinks, Joy sits on a kitchen stool and leans her head on her hand. “I went to the park today,” she mumbles, watching Mrs. Kim flit around putting away the rest of her shopping in the proper cupboards and drawers.

“Oh, that’s nice, dear,” the old lady says with genuine pleasure. “It’s not good for such a young girl to be stuck inside the house all day,” she chides maternally. “You’ll get all gloomy and – oh, that’s the tea!” she interrupts herself happily.

Joy hurries to her feet, to retrieve the mugs for Mrs. Kim so she’ll have her hands free walking to her armchair. She follows behind her and hands over one of the cups once she’s comfortably settled. Then she sits in the corner of the sofa facing Mrs. Kim and blows on her hot drink.

Mrs. Kim seems to forget all about their conversation once she’s focused her attention on her tea, so they drink silently for a while as Joy takes in her small home, filled with family photos and knick-knacks that surely have sentimental value.

The woman’s whole life is summed up in those little objects. From birth to childhood to falling in love, her husband, her children, and now her grandchildren. So much is in the past, including some things that she can never get back, but they’re immortalized in her memories. She can sit back and look at those photos and relive every one of those moments.

Irene is so young. Joy knows she should stop thinking about her, but she can’t help it. Irene is so young, barely 30 years old if she had to guess, and she’s got nothing. She doesn’t have a lifetime of memories and souvenirs, she only has an empty, impersonal apartment, laundry and Netflix. She’s not living, she’s just waiting.

And yes, she isn’t human. It’s not very likely that she’ll get married and have children, but that’s not the only thing a person can live through. Irene could be travelling, meeting people, even just going out to the park and watching the sun slowly make its way across the sky. Instead, she’s all alone, always alone.

“Have you seen Irene lately? The woman from 5B,” she clarifies as Mrs. Kim only studies her blankly. She didn’t mean to say it out loud, but now she has, so she might as well roll with it.

“I’m afraid I haven’t, no. She doesn’t go out much, does she?” the old lady muses, a small frown drawing itself on her wrinkled face. She’s probably thinking about how Irene will get all gloomy too.

Joy sighs, shifts her cup from hand to hand. “I talked to her the other day and I thought it went well, but I haven’t seen her since and now I’m getting a little worried,” she admits with her eyes down on the faded carpet.

Mrs. Kim hums against her hot tea. “Well, she’s been here for a few years, after all. She must have all her routines formed by now.” Joy nods along to her words, although she isn’t sure that Irene even has enough in her life to form a routine around. It seems like the woman only lounges around the apartment doing nothing. Before, she wouldn’t have the energy for much else, but now that she’s fed from Joy, she can’t imagine how Irene doesn’t go crazy in her tiny home.

The old lady sitting next to her is nice enough to wait until Joy’s distracted thoughts are more or less collected before she continues. “Even if she wants to change things, she might not know how,” she points out wisely. “Don’t be afraid to push a little.”

Joy signals her hesitant compliance with a small shrug. “What if I already pushed?” she eventually asks. Mrs. Kim chuckles, like she expected no less.

“Well, I’ve got an idea. It’s a bit out there, but it just might be crazy enough to work,” the old lady suggests in hushed tones. Joy leans forward, equal parts curious and worried. “Why don’t you go over there and ask her?” Mrs. Kim finishes smugly.

She doesn’t even bother hiding her deadpan expression, which her companion accepts with a good-natured laugh. “If you really did upset her, she’ll tell you and you can apologize. Otherwise, you’ll know you’ve been worrying for no reason,” the old lady adds after another sip of her drink, a little self-satisfied smile on her face. “Now finish your tea before it gets cold, dear.”

The rest of the evening is spent chatting about Mrs. Kim’s youngest grandson, who has just learned how to say “no” and now happily lobs the word at anything that displeases him, and sometimes at things he likes as well. He’s a very confusing communicator.

Her hostess offers Joy dinner, but she feels bad eating the woman’s food when she has so much trouble just getting to the supermarket and back, so she goes back to her empty apartment and heats up a frozen pizza.

Mrs. Kim doesn’t have all the fine details of her and Irene’s interactions, of course. Joy isn’t exactly eager to share her sex life with an elderly lady, not to mention the fact that Irene is an actual demon, which she obviously can’t be talking about, unless she wants to end up in a mental institution. So the old lady’s advice is not necessarily valid. Plus, there’s the little issue of how Irene has already said, quite emphatically, that she didn’t want Joy’s company or her meddling, which Joy immediately ignored.

But she knows she won’t stop wondering if she doesn’t check. Even if Irene just ends up slamming the door in her face, Joy needs to know that she’s alright. She doesn’t know anything about desire demons or how they work. People can’t drink too much water after coming out of the desert, or they’ll die. What if it’s the same for demons and feeding on Joy after so long could send Irene into shock, or worse?

That settles it, then. It’s one thing to think that the succubus living on your floor needs to get out and live a little, or even to worry that you might have made her angry by disrespecting her wishes to remain underfed and debilitated. It’s another entirely to fear that having sex with you has incapacitated or killed her.

Probably not killed. Irene did say that demons can’t die. But plenty of unpleasant things can happen to you before you’re at the point of death. They probably haven’t. But they might.

She’ll check on Irene in the morning, just to be sure. 


	4. Hunger

The young couple has left for work and Mrs. Kim just stepped on her bus. Joy sat with her at the stop while she waited, only partly because she was feeling nervous and wanted to postpone her possible confrontation with Irene for a little longer. The old lady saw right through it, but she was kind enough not to mention it, only winking at her knowingly as the bus took off.

And now she’s standing in front of the door to apartment 5B, arm awkwardly raised but unwilling to reach out and knock. Giving up, she leans forward until her ear is nearly glued to the door. The TV isn’t on this time, and no other sounds seem to be taking its place. All is still inside Irene’s apartment, and for a moment Joy’s heart feels like it’s beating in her throat.

She hurriedly knocks, the seconds ticking away slowly as she receives no response. She tries again, a little harder, calling Irene’s name as well. Her ear is pressed to the door again as she tries to make out any hint of movement, any muffled shuffling.

“Go away” is what she hears instead, spoken clearly but a little impatiently, and coming from just behind the door. She’s sure she didn’t hear anything moving around, so has Irene been by the door this whole time, just ignoring her? That somehow manages to be creepy and rude at the same time.

“Are you okay?” she asks anxiously, barely registering Irene’s request as her biggest concern is still the older woman’s well-being. Without realizing it, her hand has come up to rest against the door, following her body’s impulse to push against the object separating them.

“I’m fine, go away,” Irene insists in clipped tones, and it doesn’t sound entirely convincing. Joy leans a little closer against the door and she swears she can hear a sharp intake of breath as she does so.

“Are you sure?” Now she can definitely hear a sigh, which does sound like something Irene would do in this situation. Maybe she really is okay.

“Yes, I am. I’m perfectly fine.” Her words end a little awkwardly, like she was thinking of adding another “go away” but changed her mind at the last minute. Joy would like to think that it’s because Irene doesn’t really want her to go, not completely, but she probably just didn’t want to repeat herself yet again.

She seems to be alright. A little weird, but that’s what’s expected with Irene. A tentative wave of relief runs through Joy, though it’s quickly followed by uncertainty and a little dread at the thought that now is the part where she apologizes. Quite possibly through the door, because Irene certainly doesn’t seem eager to open it anytime soon.

“I’m really glad you’re okay,” she begins, a little unsure of where to go from there. Irene offers no response, so she carries on. “I actually came here because I was hoping we could talk. Can you maybe let me in so we can do that?”

There’s a beat of silence. Is Irene just going to ignore her now? Her restless fingers try to tap against the door, but she stops herself. She doesn’t want to seem impatient, even if that’s exactly how she is feeling. “No,” Irene finally deigns to reply. Again, the “go away” isn’t actually said but it seems to hover in the air between them like an unspoken suggestion.

“Okay, that’s fine, I’ll talk out here.” Another sigh from the other side of the door, which she decisively ignores. “So, I’ve been thinking about the last time we talked.” It’s a bad start, and she can almost picture Irene’s brow quirking at her choice of words. Talked? Sure, there was some of that, but that’s definitely not what left the biggest impression. If all they did was talk, she wouldn’t be here, apologizing through a door.

“Anyway,” she continues gracelessly, before Irene can snort or sigh or have some other discouraging reaction. “What I did that day… I acted with the best of intentions, I promise I did, but that still doesn’t change the fact that I might have gone against your wishes.”

“Even if, um, you encouraged me.” She pauses to cough drily, the memories making her face grow a little warm. “That was still, you know, sometimes in the heat of… things, we can make decisions that aren’t what we would have wanted to do if we’d had a more sober mindset.”

Her forehead tilts forward until it’s leaning on the cool wood, the embarrassment of this ridiculous situation not quite enough to compete for the top 10 most awkward moments of her life but definitely making a brave effort. “The thing about me is that I really don’t like to see people in trouble and not help them out. And sometimes, I can have some issues with accepting that they don’t want my help.”

It would be great if Irene would react to anything she’s saying right about now. At this point, she’d be happy with one of those snorts, just a sign that Irene hasn’t simply walked off or taken a nap or something. “I guess I wanted to apologize for that. Even if I don’t agree with your choices, they’re still your choices to make, not mine. And I promise that I won’t try to do that again. If you don’t want to feed, I won’t force you.”

They’re reaching the end of the apology and this would be the perfect moment for Irene to open the door. Joy waits a few moments, just to be sure, but of course the obstacle between them remains firmly in place. “Irene? Are you still there?”

For a few silent moments, Joy wonders if the older woman did actually walk off and leave her talking to the void, but she’s proven wrong by a noncommittal grunt. It’s not very reassuring, and it might move a lesser woman to silence, but Joy is determined to see this through. She’s almost done, anyway.

“Okay, good. Glad I’m not talking to myself here,” she jokes, and receives absolutely no response, as expected. “Right, so I can understand if you’re mad at me and maybe don’t trust me, that’s a totally reasonable response. I just wanted to apologize and let you know that I’m still interested in being your friend, if that’s something you could see happening. No more funny business,” she tries again to joke, although she can’t say she expects a positive response with that one.

One beat of silence. Then another, and another. She taps her fingers against the door one more time, saying goodbye to the faithful wooden object that was there for her throughout this entire humiliating experience.

And then Irene talks, which isn’t even the most surprising part. “You really don’t understand desire demons, do you, Joy?” she asks, and what really takes Joy by surprise is the way her voice sounds so unexpectedly steady. After Irene in her weakened state, Irene overcome by desire, even Irene grumblingly trying to get her to leave, this confident and almost playful Irene comes as a shock.

The door falls open, Joy nearly falling along with it, although she manages to keep her balance at the last minute. Inside is Irene, but she doesn’t look anything like the Irene Joy knows. She’s dressed as casually as ever, no make-up and hair somewhat ruffled, like she’s been running her hands through it a bit more than she should. But there’s something about her, something completely different, something that has Joy immediately stopping in her tracks, mouth dry and mind completely empty.

“I’m not angry,” she says lightly, and the corners of her lips quirk into a crooked smile. She looks beautiful, more than beautiful, completely irresistible. Joy is already stepping inside the room without even realizing it, her thoughts still buzzing with no semblance of logic as she struggles to understand what has changed. Their eyes lock and it’s like her legs forget how to function for the briefest moment. Irene looks at her with an intense gaze that seems to barely restrain something feral and raw clawing at its enclosure. Irene looks at her like she wants to eat her up and Joy begins to understand the vast, vast difference between a succubus and a human.

“I’m hungry,” Irene explains, quite redundantly by this point, especially when her very next move is to pin Joy against the wall, letting the door close almost as an afterthought.

It would be stupid to assume Irene would be the same after feeding. Logically, she knows this, she’s known it from the moment she found out that Irene was so terribly underfed. Still, she can’t deny that the change has taken her completely by surprise. Irene’s playful roughness jolts her, sending a thrill of arousal coursing through her body.

The succubus’s reaction is immediate, a throaty growl escaping her as she presses forward to cover Joy’s neck in bites and kisses, nowhere near as gentle as Joy was when the situation was reversed. Not that she’s complaining, of course. She wouldn’t dream of it.

“You’re stubborn, aren’t you?” Irene grumbles, which isn’t very consistent, given that she is lowering her hands to Joy’s waist and unbuttoning her jeans. “Are you missing that bit in the human brain, the one that keeps you from walking into traffic? The one that warns you not to make terrible, dangerous decisions?”

It’s hard to take her admonishing seriously, not when her fingers are slipping past the waistband of Joy’s underwear and coming painfully close to her throbbing center. She squirms a little, but Irene’s grip is like steel, keeping her firmly in place. Before they can give her any relief, however, Irene’s fingers have already returned to Joy’s stomach, which they explore freely.

“Here I am trying to be considerate,” Irene carries on in her monologue, Joy all too happy to let her do all the talking while all her own senses are focused on just where Irene’s hands will touch next. They flutter all the way up to the underside of her bra, then back down, pressing a little harder into her flesh. She feels Irene’s smile against her neck as her muscles spasm at the touch.

“Trying to keep my distance until I’ve got my urges under control,” Irene continues, and it leaves a bitter taste in Joy’s mouth. Is that what she calls it? Urges? In Joy’s experience, urges don’t typically make you feel like you’re slowly suffocating if you don’t satisfy them.

“Until you were starving again,” she corrects stubbornly. Irene shushes her, although she doesn’t seem too displeased at the interruption, given that her very next action is to wrap her hands around Joy’s waist and lift her into the air, turning them around to head further into the house.

It’s a strange experience to be lifted so effortlessly by a woman substantially shorter than her, but it doesn’t last long enough for it to get ridiculous, because soon she is dropped on Irene’s sofa, falling on her back as the older woman quickly moves to straddle her.

Joy’s top is off in a flash, revealing a lacy black bra that doesn’t quite match her casual look of jeans and a t-shirt. Irene pauses to study it with an amused grin, not making any comments while her hand comes up to trace the patterns in the fabric.

Alright, so Joy came prepared for the possibility that her conversation with a desire demon ended in sex. Sue her. It’s not like she was wrong, anyway. Thankfully, the pause is short-lived, and Irene quickly slides the straps of the lacey thing down Joy’s shoulders to expose her breasts, her look of appreciation growing. She leans down to take one of Joy’s nipples in her mouth, immediately beginning to suck and lick at it, drawing a series of gasping whimpers from Joy’s lips. Even though all of her brain is focused on the sensations currently assaulting her body, her hands still manage to move, seemingly with no conscious input on her part, to tangle her fingers in Irene’s hair and keep her head right there, right where it’s making her feel like lightning is coursing through her entire body.

Still, even though she’s probably gripping a little tighter than would be completely comfortable, Irene barely seems to notice Joy’s tugs as her head moves lower. In fact, the only thing that draws a response from her are the accompanying whines at the absence of the wet warmth on Joy’s nipple. At this sound, her hands freeze, then follow her head’s downward motion, nails raking against Joy’s skin with just enough force to leave a mark.

As for the younger woman, her complaints stop once Irene is gently nibbling on the skin below her navel and her deft fingers are hooking around the sides of Joy’s jeans and pulling them off of her. It doesn’t take long before her underwear is off as well, and then Irene is propping one of her legs over her shoulder while the other is draped over the back of the sofa, creating just enough space for her to lean in and let her hot breath hit Joy’s exposed folds, nails digging into her soft flesh as the younger woman shudders at the sensation.

Joy’s eyes are screwed shut, every movement on Irene’s part taking her by surprise. Her entire body tenses up as the older woman comes closer, every moment seeming to take an eternity, although she knows it isn’t that long at all before Irene’s tongue begins to lap along her length, humming appreciatively at the way Joy moans and her fingers, still wrapped up in Irene’s hair, dig a little harder against her scalp.

Irene isn’t rough, her fingers never burying themselves deeply enough into Joy’s thighs for her nails to leave any marks. When her teeth press against Joy’s clit, it’s more a nibble than a bite, the pressure only enough to cause pleasure and not pain. No, Irene’s touches aren’t violent, but they definitely aren’t gentle either. Her tongue brushes against Joy’s sensitive flesh with relentless purpose, bringing forth wave after wave of pleasure until her whole body seems to be full to the brim with it, her entire world narrowing to Irene’s mouth on her, to Irene’s tongue flat against her.

The sensation becomes almost overwhelming and Joy’s body begins to squirm against it, her hips bucking in irregular patterns. Her grip on Irene’s hair tightens as she whimpers, her communication more than vague, but Irene still seems to get the hint as she slows down her touches, not quite enough for that pressure to stop building, but just enough that Joy no longer feels like her body might split apart under the weight of it.

Her moans grow longer and breathier as she comes closer and closer to the edge, gently coaxed along by Irene’s expert tongue. It’s like the older woman knows just what she wants, where to touch and how, when Joy herself is incapable of explaining it or even fully grasping it. Her thoughts are increasingly disorganized, any specific concept hard to focus on, and amidst glimpses and flashes of diffuse ideas, the last concrete reflection that she manages is that it is impossibly cruel that Irene has kept her gift from the world for so long.

And then her hips freeze, their frantic movements stilled as she can only press against Irene’s mouth and ride out her orgasm in silent, breathless ecstasy. Every single one of her muscles clenches, jolts of pleasure making her shudder every time Irene’s tongue brushes her clit, and it is only when she begins to relax and her back makes its way back to the sofa, down from the awkward angle at which she arched off it, that Irene stops moving against her.

The older woman pulls back, moving to a sitting position. Her chin glistens, nearly dripping, and the sight isn’t quite embarrassing, but it’s definitely flustering. She makes eye contact with Joy as her hand comes up to wipe around her mouth, her smile far too smug to reasonably be this attractive.

She feels a pleasant haze, her body heavy and languid where it lies, but this time she remains awake, only as tired as she usually is after excellent sex. She lets her head fall back against the sofa cushion, eyes still on Irene as she takes slow, even breaths. The older woman only watches her, licking her hand clean a little sloppily but making no move to approach her.

After a moment’s hesitation, she props herself up on her elbows then sits up fully. She reaches out for Irene, fingers brushing against her side, but her gesture is dismissed with an amused smile.

“There’s no need for that,” she says gently, hand coming up to pat Joy’s before she lets it fall on the sofa between them. Her voice is soft, tender, everything in her demeanour as kind as last time. It’s like feeding dulls all her edges, makes something inside her project such warmth that Joy only wants to drape herself over her and fall asleep against that tiny frame.

At the moment, she also wants to contest Irene’s words, but the older woman beats her to it. “I feed on your pleasure, not mine,” she explains, a wicked glint in her eyes that only grows as her words inevitably send a new wave of arousal through Joy’s spent body.

Still, they also raise a question, which she is quick to voice. “But last time you let me…” She trails off, suddenly embarrassed of saying it out loud, like she isn’t sitting naked on Irene’s sofa after the latter just ate her out.

“Because it turned you on,” Irene points out simply. This time, it isn’t just her words that have Joy’s insides squirming with want, but also the way her lips quirk into a suggestive smile that Joy can’t believe isn’t actually a succubus power, because no human should be able to pack that much allure into a single facial expression.

And then Irene’s eyebrow is arching playfully and Joy remembers that the woman in front of her can magically tell when she’s turned on, the situation quickly taking a turn back to embarrassing. She coughs awkwardly and turns around to pick up her clothes and get dressed, mostly to avoid eye contact while she calms herself down.

“So, what are you going to do now?” she asks once she’s fully dressed and minimally composed. She’s sure her hair is a mess, but she can’t do much about that now, and if she’s being honest, Irene’s isn’t faring much better. Of course it just makes her look even hotter, but she supposes that’s one of the benefits of being a succubus.

That’s still a strange thought. That Irene is a desire demon. There’s nothing particularly demonic about her, after all. Right now, she looks as human as they get, maybe a little prettier than average, but definitely not… satanic, or anything.

Still, Joy remembers the way she looked just a few moments ago, how her eyes practically glowed with something that was similar to lust but infinitely more hungry and primal. If it didn’t show in their first time together, it definitely did the second time around. She feels like it should make her a lot more uncomfortable than it does.

But how can she be uncomfortable when Irene is studying her with a slightly furrowed brow, looking like a suspicious child? All she wants is to reach out and pinch those puffed-out cheeks, despite the knowledge that the older woman could twist her arm away without breaking a sweat. Instead, she does her best to look penitent as she fixes Irene with her best apologetic gaze.

“I meant what I said. Even if it might not look like it,” she adds self-consciously, grinning internally as the remark nearly brings a smile to Irene’s face. “If you don’t want to feed, you don’t have to. I can leave you alone until you’re done with your… urges,” she finishes unhappily, dreading the thought of the vibrant, playful Irene in front of her going back to her lifeless, underfed self, but still determined to keep her word.

Irene fixes piercing eyes on her for a few moments, like she’s trying to read the truth in her soul. Joy knows that’s not actually a succubus power, but it doesn’t make her feel any less exposed. Finally, the older woman looks away with a sigh. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s going to work out. Starving myself is proving a little harder than I remembered,” she admits flippantly. Well, of course it would be hard, it must go against every instinct she has!

“It doesn’t help that I know there’s a willing snack just down the hall.” Joy barely suppresses a snort at that. Please, like this is her fault.

Okay, yes, technically this is her fault. But only because she fed Irene that first time. Anything after that isn’t on her. She was about to leave when Irene dragged her in here, so they’re both equally responsible for this. Irene more than her, really, she’s the one with all the experience with being a succubus and Joy is just a nice person doing her best in a very confusing situation. And speaking of being a nice person…

“So, how often do you need to feed?” Irene’s brows raise at the question, which is honestly a little unexpected. Is she not supposed to be Irene’s snack? Demeaning nomenclature aside, she doesn’t exactly have a problem with that, especially if it’s always going to be this good.

“No, no, you don’t need to worry about that. You can drop by to chat or entertain yourself or whatever it is you wanted from me. I have a feeling it’s not that easy to shake you off, anyway,” Irene remarks, and Joy bites back a very sceptical comment on how Irene clearly doesn’t have that much of a problem with it. “But I’ll take care of the feeding.”

Joy wants to question this decision, or at least demand more information on what exactly Irene intends to do to “take care” of it, but her eyes are steely, leaving no room for argument. This isn’t a negotiation, it’s a take-it-or-leave-it situation. And Joy doesn’t want to get kicked out of Irene’s apartment through magic touching powers yet again, so she takes it. At least Irene is feeding again.


	5. Company

Spending time with Irene and not having sex with her is a new experience. Actually, everything about hanging out with Irene is a new experience. Joy swears she’s never watched so much Netflix, not even when she was nearing exam season in college and she binged entire TV shows in pure procrastination.

Irene likes documentaries. She really likes them. Joy tries to sneak in a romantic comedy or something every once in a while, but still, they spend most of their time watching documentaries. She never knew she could learn so much about cults, sports and the pharmaceutical industry.

And it’s so hard to get Irene out of the house. She’s always making up ridiculous reasons for why they should stay inside instead. As it turns out, succubi don’t actually eat food, so they can’t go out for lunch. Irene also stretches it to get her out of coffee dates, like it would really be that weird for someone to sit in a coffee shop and not be drinking.

Joy manages to get her to the park, the one where she spent such a nice afternoon listening to the birds. Irene grumbles all the way there, complaining of the cold, the wind, the harsh sunlight, the noise, and probably other stuff. Joy isn’t sure because that’s about the point that she tunes out, Irene’s words fading to a pleasant buzzing. She does get a light smack on the shoulder when the older woman finally notices she isn’t listening anymore, but it only makes her laugh.

Irene is good at acting human. She knows just how strong she should be and she doesn’t cross that line. She doesn’t move too fast, either, and she acts just like the frail little thing she appears to be, dragging her feet along the few blocks that separate their apartment building as she complains with all the breath in her lungs.

She has the frail act so well practiced that it’s still Joy’s first instinct to offer her arm for support, to slow down her steps so the shorter woman can keep up, even if she has first-hand experience of just how much of an act it is.

Now that she isn’t even feeding Irene, it feels more like a dream with each passing day. Her superhuman strength, her impossible abilities, that glow in her eyes. She knows it’s real, remembers it well enough, but every day it becomes harder to believe. Irene doesn’t feel like a demon, she feels like a friend. A really good-looking friend, with whom she’s had sex a couple of times, but hey, she’s had weirder relationships.

Joy drags Irene to a bench close enough to the fountain that they can watch it without getting splashed, even when the wind turns, and they settle down with minimal complaints from the older woman. The park is about as empty as last time and they’re perfectly alone aside from the occasional passer-by or kid on a skateboard. She’s pretty sure those should be in school, but she doesn’t feel old enough to be berating teenagers and their bad habits, so she lets them be.

When she brought Irene here, she only wanted them to chat in a different atmosphere, somewhere illuminated by a natural source of light, rather than one of her dad’s tiny and stuffy apartments. A place where they’d be surrounded by life.

What she didn’t expect was that Irene would fall completely silent. And yet, from the moment they’re sitting on their bench, not quite close enough for their arms to brush together, the older woman won’t say another word. She only looks around, her gaze intense, like she’s trying to etch every inch of their surroundings in her memory.

It’s so silly, because they can come here as many times as she wants. They can come every day, if she loves it that much. The trees won’t go anywhere, and neither will the cloudy sky or the bubbling fountain. She’s almost tempted to say it out loud, mostly because she likes teasing Irene, but that’s when her companion finally speaks.

“It’s so beautiful,” she gasps out in awe, eyes sparkling with pleasure. There’s a shy smile on her face, and at this angle Joy can see fluffy white clouds perfectly reflected in Irene’s clear eyes. She avoids the cliché of muttering “It is” as her gaze remains on the woman next to her, but only because she’s not that kind of cheesy idiot.

Instead, she goes for the original plan. “It’s been here for a while, you know?” she asks playfully, flinching away from the smack that she fully expects to receive, but Irene only turns to her with a sorrowful expression.

“My eyes were too sensitive to sunlight,” she explains in a weak voice, an embarrassed half-smile curling her lips as she focuses her attention on her hand, currently drawing patterns on the wooden slats of the bench.

The familiar pang of empathy clenches Joy’s heart, her protective instincts hard to fight back as the small woman sitting next to her seems to grow even smaller. “Irene, why would you do that to yourself?” she finally manages to ask around the knot in her throat.

Irene shrugs and it’s one of those times when Joy finds it hard to believe that she’s nearly 30. She looks like a kid, one that is in desperate need of a hug. She waits, but Irene doesn’t elaborate, only stares at her own hand for a bit longer before returning her attention to the sky above them. She doesn’t push; Irene never likes it when she pushes and she’d rather avoid an argument right now.

They sit there a lot longer than Joy originally intended, because now that she knows how much Irene enjoys it, she can’t let her leave until the sun sets. Just like last time, people start coming, the park slowly filling, and from the corner of her eye, she can see Irene grow restless at the crowd. She pretends not to notice, keeping her eyes trained on one person at a time.

A middle-aged man power-walks right by them, gasping out words into the receiver of his phone. A couple swings their youngest child between their outstretched arms, to her delighted giggles, as their eldest walks ahead of them with his full attention devoted to the ice cream in his hand. A teenage couple settles on a distant bench and she swears it’s the same as last time. This time their entwined hands rest on top of one of the boys’ legs, their bodies pressed together as he lets his head rest on the other’s shoulder. She’d flash them a smile, but she doubts they remember her.

Irene seems ready to get up, so Joy lets her hand drop on her shoulder, to keep her there. She obeys without another word, which is a bit peculiar, but Joy won’t question her luck. Less than half an hour later, the sky finally begins to burn with every colour of the rainbow, blazing yellows and reds near the horizon that shift to softer pinks and light blues as their eyes travel up, eventually washing away to the deep blue of night that will slowly take over the full sky.

She tears her eyes away from the sight to find that Irene is completely enthralled. In the fading daylight, her features become softer, dimmer. Only her eyes remain as sharp and bright as before, standing out in the growing darkness.

“Beautiful, right?” Joy manages to ask, gaze still firmly on Irene’s profile, because apparently she can’t resist being a cheesy idiot forever.

Irene nods reverently, her lips parting but no sound escaping them. Then she smiles, and she’s still smiling when she turns back to Joy, the sky considerably darker by now. “Thank you,” she says simply. She doesn’t elaborate, so Joy choses to interpret it as she’d like. She chooses to believe that Irene is glad to be here, glad to be alive, glad to be living again.

(…)

She never got contacted again by that bar she applied to, which is frankly a little rude. They could at least let her know she got rejected. Sure, she definitely wasn’t expecting to get the gig, but she might have been some kind of crazy optimist and just waited and waited for their answer.

It’s that little bit of spite that has her so tempted to leave them hanging when they do call her. They don’t want her to work there, obviously, but they’ve just lost their bartender for tonight and the back-up guy isn’t available on such short notice, so they’re trying every contact they have, which apparently means her.

And while screwing them over would be satisfying in a deliciously petty way, she’s still very much bored. Spending time with Irene is fun, even if the woman draws the line at three interactions per week, and only one of them outdoors, but she needs more in her life than a demon shut-in and the occasional afternoon tea with Mrs. Kim.

So she agrees, especially pleased at the offer of double their usual pay, and happily shows up at the bar an hour before opening time to be thoroughly instructed on her duties. They are about what she expected: take orders, make drinks and receive payment. It’s a weekday, so the place shouldn’t be too crowded, and she’s made a handy little cheat sheet of the most commonly ordered drinks, which she hides behind the counter where customers can’t see it.

When the bar opens, she feels somewhat confident that she can do a good job. It helps that she’s young and pretty and she can probably giggle her way through any minor fumbles. As long as she doesn’t set anything on fire that shouldn’t be on fire, she should be alright.

A few hours pass and soon the bar is reasonably busy. Her boss was right in guessing that the place wouldn’t get crowded, as it’s still far from its full occupancy, but there are enough people to keep Joy on her toes, especially given that she’s not the fastest at mixing drinks. Soon, she is filled with gratitude at every customer who asks for a beer and spares her the trouble of a nervous glance at her secret list of drinks.

A young man, around 30, makes his way to the counter and calls her over with a charismatic smile and a little wave. She likes him straight away, maybe because he doesn’t call out impatiently or give her a sleazy wink, so she moves to his side without delay. It also helps that he’s not bad-looking at all.

“Two beers, please,” he requests close to her ear, to be heard over the din of the bar. She flashes a quick smile to show that she heard him and moves to the taps. He moves along with her, like he can’t wait a second longer than necessary, even if they’ll both end up at the till anyway. He’s still smiling happily and she gets the idea that he might have some good news to share.

“So, who’s the second beer for?” she eventually asks, not leaning as close as he did but making up for it with increased volume. He receives the question with a brightening face, which is enough for Joy to guess what the good news might be.

“I didn’t catch her name yet,” he replies with a grin that is halfway between boisterous and embarrassed. She takes the initiative to offer him an encouraging smile, always good to ensure a nicer tip, and this seems to help him shed the embarrassment. “But if things go well, I’ll be getting to know her a lot better,” he adds more confidently.

Okay, so maybe now he’s a little too confident. She’s fine with some bragging, but strangers talking to her about their planned sexual conquests is a bit much. That, or she’s just jealous that he’s getting laid tonight and she absolutely isn’t. That’s also a possibility.

Maybe she should try her own luck at the bar some other night. Clearly, the patrons aren’t too off-putting. She wouldn’t mind meeting someone as handsome as the man still eagerly awaiting his drinks and having some casual fun.

She moves to the till and accepts his payment, as well as his generous tip, courtesy of his good mood. He rushes off as soon as the drinks are in his hands, not even giving her time to wish him good luck, although he does remember to thank her.

She won’t deny that she’s curious to see who has commandeered the man’s attention so completely that he barely spares a glance at the pretty bartender. She leans forward, trying to follow his receding back, but he disappears in the crowd and her vision is suddenly blocked by a group of middle-aged men requesting shots.

Nearly an hour passes and she’s more or less forgotten that her conversation with that young man has happened at all, or at least any details beyond the fact that he was attractive and smiled at her. She’s far too busy working to keep anything else in mind, so she only remembers her curiosity regarding his date when she sees him get out of the bathroom and immediately fix his eyes on something off to his right, hidden from Joy’s view by a few crowded tables. His whole face lights up with a smile and she is suddenly itching to know just how attractive his date can be, if she has such a handsome man acting like he can’t believe his luck.

She leans discreetly to the right, as far as her small workspace allows, but it’s not quite enough, so she gives up and settles for keeping an eye on the man, watching him closely to see if his date will approach him and show herself to Joy.

Instead, he walks off, presumably in the mystery date’s direction, and Joy almost gives up her cause until he emerges from the crowd with his arm wrapped securely around the waist of a petite woman.

Joy immediately reaches for the nearest empty glass and begins drying it as diligently as possible, even though it’s already perfectly dry. She just wants to look busy so she can study the woman to her leisure, without any annoying interruptions or requests for complicated drinks that will require her full attention.

She’s dressed in a tiny black dress that hugs her curves, perfectly accentuating the alluring lines of her body. Her high heels are elegant, or maybe they just look that way because of how effortlessly she balances on them, each step lending a sway to her hips that makes it almost impossible to look away. Ever the gentleman, her date has draped his suit jacket over her bare shoulders, protecting her from the cold and, as Joy suspects, from unwanted gazes by other interested parties.

Interested parties like Joy, whose gazes lingers on a glimpse of collarbone, all that peeks out from under the jacket. Forget the man, if this woman is any example of the kind of people who attend this bar, Joy will drop by every day.

Her gaze continues travelling upwards, the glass in her hands completely forgotten as she takes in every inch of this woman. Then it nearly slips off her hand and crashes into the sink, because of course. Of course. Of course it’s Irene. Who else could it possibly be?

But she looks so beautiful. God, she looks so beautiful, Joy can’t look away at all now. Her hair is elegantly curled, just enough that it doesn’t fall as flat as it normally would. Her pale skin, so naturally free of all blemishes, is now perfectly even under a light layer of makeup. Her lips are a deeper shade of red, like two little rose petals, and they seem to call out for Joy to leap over that counter and capture them in a blazing kiss.

She’s never kissed Irene, she realizes with a little start. It’s a strange thing to think as she watches the woman get ready to leave the bar with a man she’s just met, to go home and have sex with him. But it’s what comes to her mind, that she’s never kissed Irene. Those lips have been on much more intimate places, but never on her own.

And maybe Irene will kiss that man, that man whose name Joy doesn’t even know. And again, it’s a strange thing to focus on, because they’ll do a lot more than kiss, but it’s all that comes to mind. Her hand tightens over the glass and she swears she can feel something cracking, so she quickly puts it down.

A young woman approaches the bar to ask for a fruity cocktail and Joy pushes away the swirl of thoughts that has invaded her mind so she can focus on preparing the drink. When she looks back up, scanning the entire room with a quick eye, she finds the couple by the door. Irene is looking over her shoulder, straight at her, and her eyes betray nothing. Joy smiles tightly at her, so she smiles back and off they go.

It’s stupid, she knows that much. It’s more than stupid. Irene is a succubus, and she certainly hasn’t been feeding from Joy, so what did she think that she’s been doing? Obviously, it was this. Since the last time they slept together, it’s been this.

And what’s the point of this anger that’s rising up inside her? Is it really jealousy, that these strange men Irene has never seen before get to sleep with her and Joy doesn’t? Irene isn’t the village bicycle, she has the right to choose who to sleep with and she has no obligation towards Joy. She knows that well enough.

Humiliation, then? Is it petty that there’s definitely an element of humiliation to it? Well, it’s not completely unjustified. Joy is young, she’s attractive, she’d like to think she’s a nice enough person. So why isn’t she good enough?

Not just good enough. Irene told her she hates crowds, loud noises, people. And she’s here, in a crowded, noisy bar. She’s here, letting strangers flock to her and picking out the one that will go home with her. She purposefully comes to a place she hates, spends all that time getting dressed up, bats her eyelashes at people who are thinking of fucking her before they even get her name. All that so she doesn’t have to sleep with Joy.

And that’s her choice. At the end of the day, it’s her choice. But that fact doesn’t make it any easier to stomach, doesn’t help at all in dispelling the doubts buzzing around Joy’s head.

What does help is when the bar closes and she finishes putting everything away, then slips a few dollars into the till and slams back a couple of shots of whiskey. Then she goes to the nearby park and sits on a bench to wait for sunrise. There’s no reason not to, she can just sleep the day away afterwards.

She’s halfway to sleep when it finally happens, a pleasant buzzing in her head silencing any but the most persistent of thoughts. But the sky gradually lightens and then the first bright ray of sunlight emerges from between trees and buildings and lampposts and nearly blinds her. And she wishes Irene was there to see it.


	6. Excuses

The next morning, there’s a knock at her door. Or at least she thinks it’s morning, until she checks the time on her phone and finds that she’s slept well into the afternoon. And not only does she have a visitor, she also has a missed call from the bar. For a moment, she wonders if she’s in trouble for those shots, and she forgets all about the knocking as she prepares to call them back, but her visitor decides to ring the doorbell instead, forcing her to get moving before she is subjected to a repeat of that dreaded shrill sound.

She calls the bar on her way across the small living room, nearly tripping over her own discarded shoes. She lets out a curse just before the call connects and the owner’s polite voice greets her. “Hi there, Joy, I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

It’s been about long enough that a second ring on the doorbell will come any second now, so she lunges for the door and opens it wide, catching the person by surprise, which is a bit strange since it’s more or less expected that a door will open a short period of time after you’ve rung the doorbell.

Standing in the hallway is Irene, one hand draped dramatically over her chest. She’s back to her usual attire of sweatpants and a loose shirt, her face showing no trace of makeup and her hair captured in a sloppy ponytail. And Joy has to admit that even in her casual look, she still looks impossibly attractive.

She feels a headache begin to throb in the back of her head, and it’s definitely not because of the two innocent little shots she had last night. “Hi,” she finally remembers to reply, her voice artificially cheerful, and Irene looks supremely confused until she notices the phone glued to Joy’s face. “No, no, don’t worry about it. Is something wrong?”

Irene is doing a lot of complicated gesturing that Joy can’t really follow when she’s trying to focus on her phone conversation, so she steps aside and lets Irene decide whether she wants to wait inside or come back later. The older woman hesitates for a second before she steps into the apartment and heads to the sofa.

“Far from it,” the bar owner’s enthusiastic voice continues as she slowly pushes the door shut. “People really liked you, and you did a pretty good job for a rookie. If you could come in every once in a while, we’d really appreciate it.”

She turns around to find Irene’s gaze on her. It makes sense, since there’s not much else to look at in her apartment, but her look of interest makes Joy wonder whether her senses are sharpened beyond regular human abilities. For example, can she hear the other side of Joy’s conversation?

“What would, uh, every once in a while entail, exactly?” she asks noncommittally. It’s not like she has a schedule to work around, but something makes her reticent to take the job. If she’s being honest, she knows what it is, but she doesn’t want to pursue that particular line of thought so she pretends it’s just logistics issues.

Irene continues to study her attentively, not even bothering to hide it, and it’s just the kind of weird thing she’d do. Someone else might at least pretend to be focused on something other than eavesdropping on their host’s phone call, but not Irene.

“You’d be our go-to guy – or girl, I guess - whenever our regulars aren’t available. And I can guarantee you a day a week, so you’re never left hanging, but it would depend on everybody else’s schedules so it would vary a bit. We’d need a little flexibility on your side, do you think you can work with that?”

It’s a job, and it doesn’t pay that badly, and it would only be once a week anyway, so she really has no legitimate reason to refuse. Not to mention how it would do wonders to get her dad off her back about lazing around for a whole year and fine, some part of it is genuine concern that she’ll get unmotivated, but that doesn’t make it any less annoying.

“Sure, flexible is my middle name,” she quips in a chipper tone, and the quirk of Irene’s eyebrow at her words is explanation enough for why the line goes silent for a few seconds. Great, only a few months since she graduated and she’s already forgotten how to talk like a normal person. She blames Irene. “So, uh, I can start whenever you want,” she adds awkwardly, and the bar owner is quick to latch on to a way out of addressing her previous statement.

“Great, I’ll call you later with more details and you can come by the bar to go over things and sign a contract,” he says cheerfully, then they say their goodbyes and he hangs up.

“So, what exactly are you starting that requires flexibility?” Irene immediately asks with poorly-concealed amusement. Joy rolls her eyes, stubbornly fighting back any sort of reaction to the suggestive question.

“I’m working at the bar,” she replies in a deadpan, and it’s not like Irene needs any further information, since she knows very well which bar it is, but apparently she overestimated how drily she should respond because now she just sounds angry. Which she isn’t. “Once a week, probably. Anyway, what are you doing here?”

She was going for flippant, but once again she’s landed just shy of hostile and she’s beginning to feel like she might actually be the tiniest bit hungover. It would explain how she can’t get a single interaction right. Irene blinks at her words, but doesn’t comment, no emotion crossing her face. “We were supposed to hang out today but you didn’t show up. I guess you were asleep.”

“Right, sorry, I didn’t know about the job until literally yesterday afternoon, it was super last minute. And I didn’t think it would end so late.” That last part is a blatant lie, she could have been in bed by 4 am if she went home right away. She’s the one who thought it would be a great idea to lounge on a park bench in the middle of the night and risk a mugging just to watch the sunrise. The throbbing in her head returns and she wonders if she should just go back to bed.

“At least one of us had fun, huh?” she jokes, and this time she’s somewhat convinced that she managed to sound just playful enough. She edges a little closer to her sofa, then forces herself to act like a normal human being and falls down heavily on it, settling by Irene’s side. “I guess now I know how you take care of the feeding.”

Irene’s brow furrows. “How did you think I took care of it?” she asks quite legitimately, looking genuinely confused at Joy’s words.

“Well, I mean, I knew the basics. I was talking more about the particulars. Like, the when and where,” she explains awkwardly. Irene nods, but doesn’t say anything else. “Anyway, you looked nice. All dressed up, makeup and everything, you really went all out. Must be kind of… bothersome, to go through all that every time you want to feed.”

She shouldn’t be saying all this, or at least she should wait until her head doesn’t feel so fuzzy and uncooperative, but it’s like her tongue is moving of its own accord. It doesn’t help that Irene won’t intervene with any commentary of her own, leaving Joy to flounder and dig her grave.

Through some effort, she stops herself from blabbering on and waits for Irene to respond, playing with her phone absently. “It doesn’t hurt to make an effort every once in a while,” the older woman finally opines, her tone noncommittal.

She should shut up. She should just nod and drop it and respect Irene’s choices. “I mean, it’s more than an effort.” Her mouth seems to have different plans, though. Really, it could be worse. She could be doing a lot more than this gentle questioning of Irene’s actions. “You said you hated crowds and stuff, so it’s… not ideal, huh?”

Irene shrugs, but it’s not the lost, sorrowful shrug of their day at the park. It’s defensive, like she wishes Joy would stop prying, and she knows she should, but maybe she can just put her thoughts out there and see what comes out of it. “Nothing about feeding is ideal,” Irene says bitterly, not appearing very interested in elaborating.

“Well, yeah, I can see that, you do seem like the kind of person who would prefer to be left alone and not have to go out and meet strangers all the time,” she tries in a placating tone. Irene clearly agrees, but she’s still eyeing her suspiciously. “And, you know, maybe you don’t have to do all that.”

“Joy,” Irene cuts in testily. She pauses obediently and fixes Irene with her best innocent gaze, which doesn’t convince her in the least. “I’m happy with my current arrangement. I told you I’d take care of it on my own and I haven’t changed my mind.”

She gives up on any attempt to beat around the bush and gets straight to the point. “They’re absolute strangers, Irene. They could be dangerous.”

The older woman quirks a sceptical eyebrow. “I’m stronger than any of them. And I can’t be killed, like I told you. I have absolutely nothing to fear.”

“Well, they could still rob you or something. Take your wallet on their way out or make a note of your apartment to come back and steal your TV,” she insists, her arguments sounding absolutely ridiculous even to herself.

Irene sighs. This is going wonderfully, isn’t it? “I’m always home and my house has nothing of value,” she points out sharply. “Plus, if they take the TV, that’s a problem for your father and not me. I’m sure he’s got insurance.”

She’s searching her mind for another excuse, but Irene simply moves her hand to rest on top of Joy’s, cutting her off without a word. “I know you have good intentions, but this is one of those situations where you want to help and I’m politely refusing that help. So will you do what you promised and respect my wishes?”

She’s got her there. And Joy definitely doesn’t have a valid justification for prying any further, unless she’s willing to throw aside her pride and actually ask Irene why she doesn’t want to have sex with her.

She considers it for a moment, actually genuinely considers it, possibly moved by the feeling of Irene’s impossibly soft hand on hers. She does look her best after feeding, skin bright and clear, eyes lively and sparkling with mischief, her entire body seeming to radiate life and pleasure. At these moments it feels like touching her would be touching vitality itself.

Joy runs backwards through her memory, remembers all the moments when she felt this way and realizes in a flash that Irene has been feeding about once a week, that every time she came to Joy looking this perfect and bright, it was because she’d just been with someone, some stranger she’d picked up in a bar.

No, she can’t ask. She doesn’t want to know. Irene was right not to say anything about her visits to that bar, about what she’s been doing every week. There’s no reason for them to share that part of their lives and Joy should just forget about it and let them be what they are. Friends, purely platonic.

She forces a smile on her face and quickly changes the subject, not missing the pleased relief that flits through Irene’s face.

(…)

She might have decided to ignore Irene’s love life or, well, sex life, but clearly the universe has different plans. She is doing her best to mind her own business, but it’s hard not to think about Irene being with random men when she has a front-row seat to just that, working at the bar.

It isn’t even that Irene is doing it on purpose. She couldn’t possibly be, because Joy never tells her which days she’ll be working. She doesn’t want to know what Irene would do with that information, whether she’d try to avoid her or rub it in her face. She’s sure she’d end up overthinking it either way.

Regardless of whether or not there really is some cosmic force pushing them together, the fact of the matter is that half the time, she and Irene end up at the bar on exactly the same day of the week, in spite of her unpredictable schedule, and then she gets to watch the older woman, looking inhumanly attractive, make a bored search of her premises and latch on to the nearest passable individual.

And that’s fine. It’s her choice. If she wants to spend her nights flashing false, toothy smiles at people who are probably undressing her with their eyes long before they get to the actual undressing, then she’s certainly allowed to do it. It’s none of Joy’s business.

It’s just that she knows Irene doesn’t want to do any of that. She’s already admitted as much, more than once. She’s doing what she must, not what she’d like to do. And Joy cares about Irene, wants her to be happy, but the woman is just so stubborn.

So she wipes glasses a little harder than is needed, serves Irene’s suitors a little less politely than she should, and all the while she’s wondering. How long until Irene gets tired again? Until she’s done with all the non-ideal aspects of feeding and the prospect of languishing in a dark apartment starts looking appealing once more?

She’s lying in bed, stubbornly looking up at the dark ceiling as sleep evades her, when she hears a sound that she identifies with a sigh. The elevator doors open and a heavy body stumbles out, making no effort to be quiet. Trailing after it is someone much more careful, only making her presence known by her breathless giggles. Fake giggles, Joy notes with a scowl.

Irene’s company for the night whispers something, probably in her ear, and a new round of giggles ensues, one that is punctuated by a shrill little yelp that Joy is reasonably sure must have been caused by some playful groping.

And then something snaps. She doesn’t even understand it herself, but suddenly she is on her feet and marching to her front door, not even bothering to change her clothes. She only throws on a robe and a pair of slippers and schools her face into a mask of confused sleepiness before stepping outside the apartment.

Irene spots her first, confusion settling in her eyes, and Joy can only wonder what baffles her more: her dishevelled attire, the searching gaze she’s aiming at the man joining them in the hallway, or the fact that she’s here at all, interrupting Irene’s nocturnal fun.

The man finally turns around as he notices the little shuffling noises of Joy’s slippers, and that’s when she pours all her concentration into making her face as innocent and lost as she can manage. She stops, her dragging feet abruptly pausing their movement, and looks between the couple in front of her with increasingly wide and shocked eyes.

Irene rolls her eyes as Joy’s mouth falls open, lower lip trembling slightly, while her brow furrows like she can’t quite wrap her mind around what she’s seeing. “What’s going on?” she asks with a shaky voice, trying her best to sound like she’s almost afraid to pose the question.

Their companion studies each woman in turn and Joy can almost see the gears turning fruitlessly in his head. It makes it very hard to keep a straight face, but she’s too devoted to her art to crack this easily. “Mom? Who is this man?”

That does it. She isn’t even sure which face to focus on. Sure, the man looks hilariously like he just took a step into what he thought was a nice, harmless piece of meadow and found that it was actually a hornets’ nest, but Irene’s puzzled surprise is funny in its own way. It’s like Joy has just spoken in some foreign language and the older woman only knows that it was something vaguely offensive, but she can’t make out any details.

“Mom?”, she finally manages to spit out, her tone thick with incredulity and the word half-smothered by the accompanying scoff. The man next to her echoes the question, although he sounds a bit less sceptical and a lot more uncomfortable.

She was right to assume that Irene would lose it at her act. If she actually calmed down and asked appropriate questions, she’d pull apart Joy’s flimsy cover pretty easily, but thankfully the interruption and the particular choice of narrative are doing a wonderful job of getting under her skin.

Joy doesn’t bother answering Irene’s question, or at least not verbally. She does respond with a growing frown, mouth opening and closing like she doesn’t even know what to say to that.

“You’re no daughter of mine,” Irene spits out, looking nearly disgusted at the suggestion, and her suitor looks appropriately shocked at this unmaternal display. It’s proving way too easy to get Irene playing right into her hand.

“But that’s what you told me to call you, isn’t it? When you married my dad.” The man’s confusion clears the tiniest bit at her statement, because it doesn’t make sense for Irene to have a fully-grown daughter, but it does seem reasonable that she’d marry an older man and go around behind his back. Men are so ready to believe beautiful women are gold-diggers.

“Or didn’t you mean it?” she insists, making her voice as shaky as she can manage. “Did you really just marry him for his money? Do you care about us at all?” She gets a little louder with each question and she really hopes she won’t wake anyone up. Sure, a crowd would probably work in her favour, but she’s not sure how she’d explain her current behaviour to their neighbours.

Thankfully, the man seems to have had enough, and after a few more questioning glances at the two of them, he books it down the stairs, throwing some generic excuse over his shoulder. Irene doesn’t even bother trying to explain herself, she only huffs in impatience and heads to her own apartment, Joy close on her heel.

The door nearly flies open under the violence of Irene’s motions and Joy is very grateful that the older woman doesn’t immediately slam it shut, because she’s already halfway through it and it would probably hurt quite a bit to get a face full of door, especially when Irene isn’t really keeping her strength in check.

“You are a brat,” Irene utters through clenched teeth, fuming as she sends her purse flying towards the sofa. Her arms raise to unclasp her necklace and Joy fears for the safety of that small, fragile clasp.

“You like it,” she quips easily, her mouth once again getting ahead of her brain, and immediately Irene is turning around to face her and wow, she looks pissed. She shuts her eyes and takes a deep breath, seemingly to calm herself down, but there’s no noticeable difference when they open again.

“No, this isn’t a funny banter thing. This is me, being very angry at you,” she enunciates slowly, taking a few steps back towards Joy, who still stands awkwardly by the door. On her high heels, Irene is about as tall as Joy, and while the height different is generally a useless advantage, its loss is nevertheless acutely felt. Joy feels tiny in the face of Irene’s wrath, though it still isn’t enough to get her to back down.

No, it would take a lot more than an angry Irene to shut down Joy’s instinctive response to argue back. “What do you expect me to do? This is unsustainable, no matter how much you’d like to pretend otherwise.” Irene’s eyebrow raises, but it doesn’t carry the usual playful scepticism. Nothing about Irene at this moment is playful, really.

She takes a few more steps in Joy’s direction, coming close enough to jab her finger in her face accusingly. “And _you_ don’t get to choose how I act, not matter how much you’d like to pretend otherwise,” she ripostes sharply, copying Joy’s words in what is honestly a childish attitude.

Rationally, she should not be antagonizing the demon that can lift her without breaking a sweat. But she’s not feeling very rational, is she? “Well, maybe I should, because when you make your own decisions, you end up so weak you can’t even go outside.”

Irene grinds her teeth and about 10 different emotions flit through her face, all of them appearing to be variations on anger and frustration. It all happens in a fraction of a second, and then she’s lunging across the small space that separates them to slam her hand against the wall behind Joy with startling force.

And it’s only then, while Irene fixes her with a fiery, raging gaze and the muscles in her arm quiver with barely restrained energy, that Joy’s survival instinct catches up with her. And for once, she keeps her mouth shut.


	7. Confrontation

Irene stares her down with a piercing gaze, her hand somewhere behind Joy’s head. Her eyes are blazing with anger and frustration and hunger, and it’s like each emotion feeds the others as they combine into a dark, hypnotizing spiral.

“Will you, for once, do what I ask you and not the polar opposite?” she requests in a strangely subdued voice. There’s no need for volume across the small space that separates them, but it’s still unexpected to hear such venomous words in such a low tone.

Joy has no answer for that. It’s like every word she’s ever learned has escaped her, her brain too busy focusing on the way Irene’s chest heaves, the way the corner of her lip has curled up in a sneer. Her own breathing is laboured, her heart beating so painfully against her ribs that she can barely catch her breath.

Irene steps a little closer, somehow reducing the tiny space between them to an even smaller fraction, and everything inside Joy seems to melt and fall out of shape, until even her knees appear intent on failing her. She feels her back slip against the wall, beginning to slide down, but Irene’s sudden grip on her waist keeps her firmly in place.

She finally notices how the older woman is no longer sneering. Instead, there’s a hint of a smirk on her face, slowly growing. “Oh,” Irene remarks with evident pleasure, and her tongue pokes out to lick her lips before she continues. “So that’s what it is.” She tilts her head and more than anything, it’s confusing. How quickly the anger has dissipated to leave something far more complex and dangerously appealing in its place.

Joy tries to stutter out a question or a protest, but her throat isn’t quite working the way it should be, so she only manages some vague choking sounds. Irene chuckles. “You might as well be honest, then. No need to act all righteous and concerned.” Her words are vaguely insulting, but there’s something about the way she purrs them out that wipes them of any potential to offend.

Settling herself more securely against the wall, Joy attempts to soothe her own frayed nerves. She frowns in confusion at Irene’s statement, which only seems to feed the older woman’s amusement. “Come on, Joy. You don’t want to protect me from anything, you just want to have sex with me.” She raises an eyebrow like she’s inviting Joy to challenge her assessment, but it would take a lot of hypocrisy, because as soon as Irene says it, she realizes just what it is that’s making her body so frustratingly unresponsive.

She’s turned on. Obviously. But now that the fear is gone, her argumentative side is free to return in full force. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says shamelessly, not even backing down when Irene only laughs in her face. They study each other for a few silent moments, Joy desperately fighting back the urge to press herself against Irene and push the hand on her waist to explore further.

“Okay,” Irene throws out carelessly, pushing herself off the wall and away from Joy. “Fine, then. Off you go,” she adds with a little flick of her wrist towards the front door.

Joy remains frozen in place, not quite able to move yet. “What? But- You need to feed,” she argues instinctively, trying her best to make her voice not sound quite so uneven. 

Irene snorts, barely sparing her a glance. “Please. You think I can’t walk downstairs and find someone to help me with that? I can be back with your replacement in less than 10 minutes, if I’m not too picky,” she points out lightly, like this is some game.

If that’s what she wants, so be it. Let her go pick up some stranger in the street. If it’s so easy to replace Joy, then she won’t be the one to stand in the way of Irene’s easy fun. Lonely and bored as she might be, her pride hasn’t reached quite that low yet.

“Fine,” she spits out, turning to leave, but Irene’s arm flies out so fast that Joy barely registers the movement, landing between her and the door. Its owner follows closely, leaning in until her hot breath is hitting Joy’s ear.

“There’s no need to be so stubborn, Joy. Just admit it, I can taste how much you want me,” she whispers, and her voice seems to penetrate Joy all the way to her core, throttling her free will until she can’t even imagine taking another step towards the exit.

“What does it taste like?” she asks instead, with a voice so unsteady that she can barely finish the question. Irene hums, clearly pleased at her evident success, and Joy can’t muster up the tiniest bit of annoyance at her smugness.

“Sweet,” the older woman breathes out, then she ducks down to attach her lips to Joy’s neck, biting down hard enough to leave a mark and, more importantly, to send a jolt of arousal through Joy’s body that nearly has her knees collapsing entirely. She pushes back against the wall for support, not even able to prevent her mouth from falling open as her breath escapes her in whining gasps.

Irene chuckles, one hand still on the wall by Joy’s side as the other settles on her waist, slipping under the loose t-shirt she wore to bed and pressing against the warm skin underneath. “Sweeter,” she mutters against Joy’s neck, her tongue peeking out to trail up from her collarbone to the base of her ear before she settles her teeth lightly on her earlobe and begins to nibble.

Her other hand finally abandons the wall and joins the first in its exploration of Joy’s stomach. Just like before, Irene’s cold skin quickly warms as she presses against Joy, her touches nothing but pleasing. Her fingers inch upwards to find that Joy is braless, the unexpected contact causing the younger woman’s breath to hitch in her throat, though she quickly releases it in a drawn-out moan as Irene’s hands settle on her breasts without hesitation.

The pleasure is short-lived, and she can’t hold back a whine as Irene steps away, even if it’s just so she can push off Joy’s robe and help her out of her top, both articles of clothing discarded in a location unknown to Joy, who doesn’t even open her eyes as she waits for Irene’s caresses to return.

Her entire body trembles under the effort of remaining upright when all her muscles suddenly seem unfit for such a task, functioning with the single purpose of pressing her flush against Irene, of seeking out her touches and collapsing under her expert attention.

But Irene isn’t coming any closer, frustratingly distant as the tips of her fingers draw maddening patterns against the top of Joy’s pants. She pops open one eye and finds that she’s being studied with clearly mischievous intentions.

Irene’s fingers dip a little lower, playing with the waistband of her pants. “You still haven’t said it,” she points out gravely, or as gravely as she can manage around her teasing smirk. Joy’s brain is too muddled to decipher her words, so she only shakes her head with a whine, wordlessly demanding clarification. “Admit you want me.”

The demand clears her head as it digs up whatever she has left of her rebellious nature. For an instant, she seriously considers making a stand, but then Irene is leaning forward and leaving a trail of kisses along her jaw, just as her hands travel around Joy’s waist to cup her ass and grasp it firmly.

“Just say it, Joy.” Her voice is low and seductive, almost as tempting as the sound of her breath against Joy’s ear as she finishes talking, a short, gasped exhale, like she can barely wait herself. “Just tell me what you want.”

She presses herself fully against Joy, one of her legs settling between Joy’s and her hands on the younger woman’s ass guiding her body to seek that pressure. Every time Joy exhales, her breath escapes her in a needy whine, wordlessly demanding more, more than just Irene’s thigh grinding against her. Her arms appear to have wrapped around Irene’s neck, pulling her as close as humanly possible, hands shifting down her exposed back and revelling at the touch of her naked skin.

And still she doesn’t say it, partly because her brain is short-circuiting to the point that forming words is very complicated, but also because she is taking some masochistic pleasure in holding out as long as she can. Irene seems to pick up on her stubborn hesitation, so she leans to kiss down along Joy’s neck, to nibble on her collarbone, down until her lips and tongue are leaving trails around Joy’s breasts, and it can’t be a very comfortable position, but that’s not high on Joy’s list of concerns at the moment.

Irene’s tongue flicks against Joy’s nipple exactly once, then she pulls back. “What do you want, Joy?” she questions in a raspy whisper. She doesn’t even give her time to answer before she’s back to her nipple, licking and sucking and nibbling. One of her hands leaves Joy’s ass to trail up her back, then around to her free breast, which it immediately kneads. “What do you want?” Irene repeats, and she sounds so altered that Joy nearly gives in.

Still, she keeps her lips tightly shut as she presses her palms flat against Irene’s back, then curls her fingers to drag her nails against the spotless skin, the satisfying sensation of any kind of friction helping to ease the want that is building up so much faster than she can process it.

Irene chuckles at the challenge, the vibrations against Joy’s nipple sending her eyes rolling back in their sockets. As quickly as it arrived at her breast, Irene’s hand leaves it again, travelling downwards. Joy could take it as a sign that Irene is growing desperate, that her own need is making her movements jerky and eager, but she can’t quite focus on that half-victory when those slender fingers keep making their way down her stomach, only stopping as they bump against a barrier of fabric.

She knows Irene is going to ask again, and she also knows that if she doesn’t say anything those fingers will burrow under the waistband of her pants and draw patterns against the sensitive skin below, not quite low enough to satisfy her, just low enough to drive her crazy with need. And there’s no room in her brain for any more need, not until Irene is at least doing something about it, so as soon as the question is repeated, she rallies every bit of concentration she can manage and huffs out her surrender.

“You,” she gasps out, her stomach clenching tightly under the effort. “I want you,” she continues, encouraged by the way Irene smiles against her skin and begins to slip her fingers inside her pants. “I want you to fuck me,” she finishes with her last conscious thought, surrendering entirely to the sensations that overwhelm her as Irene’s fingers slide against her warm folds, the absolute lack of resistance letting Joy know just how wet she is. Not that she had any doubt.

And again, she can’t believe how Irene seems to know just what to do. She’s wound Joy up until she’s nearly overwhelmed by arousal, but she still manages to make her pleasure last, her strokes firm enough that they’re not just teasing yet light enough that they don’t quite fulfil her growing want. She moves against Joy like she knows every inch of her, like she can feel every sensation she causes, every little bit of pleasure. It must be a succubus thing, it has to be. No human could possibly know right away when Joy needs her to move to the left or rub a little harder, or make bigger circles, or curl her fingers just right. Sometimes it feels like Irene anticipates her needs before she can even identify them.

All she knows is that Irene fucks her like she’s never been fucked and, as frustrating as it might be, she was absolutely right when she called Joy out on her transparent lies. All this time, all she wanted was for Irene to touch her like she did on that morning, to make her feel so mind-numbingly good.

Waves of pleasure fill her, one after the other, each coming a little closer on the other’s heels until her entire being is nothing but pleasure, radiating from her center to every point of her body. Every muscle in her body tightens as she suddenly becomes incapable of holding herself up, only remaining steady against the wall because of Irene’s firm grip.

And then she’s panting in the aftershock of her orgasm, entirely limp in Irene’s grasp and easily letting herself be carried to the sofa. Her eyelids flutter with irresistible weight until she gives up and lets them slip shut. Her head rests on Irene’s lap as she drifts off to sleep, and she notices with distracted disappointment that she still didn’t kiss Irene.

(…)

Fingers are brushing gently through her hair and everything around her feels warm and pleasant. She fights back the urge to stretch so she can pretend to be asleep a little longer, but the soft caresses have already stopped.

“Oh, good, you’re up.” Irene’s voice sounds from somewhere above her, cutting through the low volume of the TV, and Joy opens her eyes just wide enough to identify her surroundings. She’s still in Irene’s home, in exactly the same position as when she fell asleep. She’s not sure how long she’s been out, but clearly enough for Irene to get bored and start watching one of her documentary series.

“Why did I fall asleep?” she manages to ask around the receding fuzz in her mind. Suddenly shy, she pushes herself up to a sitting position, away from Irene’s warm legs, running her hands through her hair in a hasty attempt to tame it after her impromptu nap. She notices that she’s back in her t-shirt and robe, courtesy of a very considerate Irene.

“Oh, I got a little carried away,” Irene answers lightly, but when Joy turns to her it’s easy to tell that she’s a little embarrassed at the occurrence. A smug smirk grows on Joy’s face, but Irene cuts off any teasing remarks before she can even come up with them. “Don’t get too full of yourself, I was just… frustrated. And not in the mood to control myself.”

Joy is about to joke about how the frustration is kind of because of her as well, but she doesn’t miss the way Irene’s face suddenly becomes serious as she thinks over the night’s events. Irene must realize the shift herself, because she doesn’t even bother beating around the bush when she speaks again. “Listen, Joy, about what happened… I’m flattered that you wanted to have sex with me, but that doesn’t change my opinion on this.”

There’s no need for clarification on what “this” is exactly, not that Joy would ask for any either way. To be honest, she’s not interested in drawing out this conversation any longer than strictly necessary, because it feels a lot like she’s getting dumped and it’s not the most pleasant stroke to her ego. She must be scowling, because Irene’s face becomes gentler, like she’s trying to soften the blow.

“Succubi aren’t exactly the type to sleep with the same person too many times. Humans have a tendency to get attached and we don’t really… Do feelings. Not to mention the fact that you’re my neighbour, and your father owns my home. I don’t want things to get complicated.” Irene’s tone is so very sympathetic, like she can’t bear to break Joy’s fragile heart, and it’s about the most antagonizing thing she could do.

“Okay, uh, I just have one question. Are all succubi this self-important, or are you just an extreme case?” Irene is clearly taken by surprise at Joy’s unexpectedly harsh words, but that little frown is still there, and she’s probably thinking that she hurt the precious little human’s feelings, which only makes Joy angrier.

She laughs it off, the sound a little too sharp in her ears. “Like, seriously, what is the thought process here? You think I’m going to fall in love with you because you gave me a couple of good orgasms?” she asks dismissively, getting up from the sofa because it feels stupid to have an argument when they’re sitting side by side, her still in her pyjamas and the TV softly playing some show about what the Earth will look like once humanity is gone.

“I’m not saying you will,” Irene replies, and now there’s a hint of sharpness under her attempt at reassurance. Good. At least if they’re both arguing, Joy won’t feel like such an antagonistic idiot. “I’m saying you might, so it’s better to avoid it.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you need to get over yourself. Sure, you’re hot, but you’re not exactly girlfriend material, are you?” She’s not even sure what she’s saying anymore, all she knows is that she needs Irene to stop looking at her with that pity in her eyes, like she’s so sure that Joy has already fallen or something.

But even when she knows she’s crossed over from defensive to straight-up mean, Irene only sighs, a little sad sigh, like she can’t stand the unfortunate sight in front of her. “Humans always think they won’t fall until they do.”

“I don’t think you understand humans at all,” Joy spits back, and it’s like she’s floated off to watch herself speak, like she’s not even in control anymore. Her mouth opens and the words pour out without any sort of conscious input on her part. “We’re not exactly falling over ourselves to date a demon who’ll go home with anyone who’s remotely interested.”

And that finally manages to rile Irene up, but it doesn’t get her angry like before, not that Joy was exactly hoping for a repeat. She’d much rather go back to her own apartment and sleep off her growing headache.

Irene’s eyes go cold, steely, all concern for Joy quickly abandoned, and it’s such a relief that the younger woman barely spares a thought to what will come of Irene’s reaction. “At least I stick to people who are interested,” she remarks in an even tone, and every word seems to strike right at where Joy is most vulnerable.

She blinks away angry tears, swallows down the petulant urge to insist that she is not in love with Irene, because why won’t the stupid demon just believe her? She isn’t! Instead, her petty self takes over, as usual. “Fine, you know what? If you’re so worried about complicating things, I’ll make it extra simple for you and fuck off. And you can go fuck yourself.”

She walks out of the apartment and slams the door behind herself before Irene can answer. It wasn’t even a good comeback, was it? She doubts Irene ever has to fuck herself, not with the army of suitors she could summon at a moment’s notice.

Not that she has to care about that anymore. She wanted company, but she’s not desperate enough to settle for someone who thinks she’s some charity case, some sad little puppy begging for scraps. She’s never had to beg for anything and she certainly won’t start now, especially not with Irene. From the beginning, all she wanted was to help, and every time she got nothing but recrimination for her efforts.

If it wasn’t for her, Irene would still be lifeless and pale, languishing against a corner of her sofa and letting time run its course towards nothing at all, but now the succubus sits in her little black dress and her perfect makeup and gazes up at Joy with pity. So full of herself. Please. As if Joy can’t do better than that.

She slams the door to her own apartment and immediately lets out an affronted huff. The nerve of some people. To think she’d fall in love quite so easily and quite so stupidly. She’s much better off like this.


	8. Dancing

Is there such a thing as an anger hangover? It certainly feels a lot like a regular hangover. You wake up and even before you open your eyes, the events of the previous night hit you with all the force of their idiocy. You lay there, hands over your face as you groan at the fool you’ve made of yourself, wondering what exactly possessed you to say such ridiculous things.

Maybe it’s just because most of Joy’s mistakes were made while she was drunk and she has begun to conflate hangovers and plain old regret. Either way, she feels terrible and embarrassed and absolutely unable to face Irene.

The woman seems to have some magical gift for pushing all of Joy’s buttons. It’s not exactly that she’s ungrateful. It’s just that she makes things so much more complicated than they need to be and then turns around and acts like it’s Joy’s fault.

Because first of all, Joy definitely does not have feelings for her. She’s attractive and they get along well but, as poorly as she managed to phrase it last night, that simply isn’t enough to have Joy falling for someone. She’s not the type to do hopeless causes.

And that’s exactly why it’s so frustrating that Irene won’t believe her. Not only because Joy doesn’t appreciate that someone is going around thinking they’re so much more important to her than they actually are, but because it’s the only reason Irene is doing all these things she hates. All so she can avoid Joy’s feelings, which aren’t even a thing.

She feels like banging her head against the wall, to be quite honest. Her stupid little display probably only reinforced Irene’s conviction, so if she comes crawling back to her now, it’ll do nothing to change her mind, and at most they’ll go back to the way things were before. And now that she knows why Irene insists on keeping things the way they are, the whole process seems so unnecessarily complicated and pointless that, well, she feels like banging her head against the wall.

She should do the reasonable, mature thing and go knock on her neighbour’s door, apologize before it’s too late and try to have an honest conversation where she expresses exactly what she does and doesn’t feel and sets Irene’s fears at ease.

She doesn’t do that. She does the dumb, childish thing and avoids Irene. She just can’t stand the sight of those pitying eyes, they’ll only make her angry again and she’ll never be able to convince Irene of anything.

A few weeks pass by, her attention fully devoted to the deadlines for graduate school applications, which are quickly approaching. She fills out and send as many applications as she can, looking through curricula and work plans and scholarship details, and only lets herself spare a though to Irene when she really can’t avoid it.

That happens to be when she’s working, of course, because it would be beneath the older woman to go look for meals anywhere other than Joy’s place of employment. And Joy has to admit that it is such a relief when she sees Irene for the first time and her face is as blank as ever. She barely cares that she’s being completely ignored, because at least Irene isn’t doing that awful thing that exes do when they’ve moved on. Stealing concerned glances at her to make sure she’s alright, catching her eye apologetically as they leave the bar with someone else. Not that they’re exes. It’s just the most apt comparison Joy can think of.

The most emotion she sees in Irene’s eyes is when Joy is caught scowling at a particularly mediocre choice for a partner and, for the briefest instant, Irene’s glare seems to blaze with displeasure before she recomposes herself and returns to perfect neutrality. For some absurd reason, the short outburst feels almost like vindication.

She can’t keep herself busy with applications forever, though. Eventually, she runs out of places to contact, and suddenly she finds herself with an unpleasant amount of free time on her hands. She can’t ask for more shifts at work and it’s finally getting cold enough that she can’t waste away an entire afternoon on the street, so she’s back to her original state. Bored. And this time it’s worse because she’s also irritated, and simultaneously anticipating and dreading the sight of Irene.

She can’t even get addicted to Netflix; she’ll start a new show and get bored by the third episode. Her gaze is on the black screen of the TV, which she didn’t even bother to turn on, when she hears the easily recognizable shuffling of Mrs. Kim’s short steps.

It’s embarrassing how quickly she scrambles to her feet and reaches out to grab the nearest jacket, barely bothering to check whether it matches her outfit, but it’s all worth it when she cracks open her front door to find that her prediction was correct and the old lady is on her way out of the house, rather than in. Joy shrugs on the overcoat that she keeps by the door and steps casually towards the elevator.

“Oh, Mrs. Kim, fancy seeing you here,” she says lightly, her features stretching into the usual bright smile that crinkles her eyes. Mrs. Kim smiles in return as she adjusts her purse on her shoulder, from where it slipped as she pushed the button to call the elevator. “Are you going shopping?”

She perks up at the affirmative answer, pleased to be able to offer some assistance. “Well, what a coincidence, I was also on my way to the supermarket! Maybe we can go together, keep each other company,” she offers cheerfully. Mrs. Kim knows what she’s doing, it’s not that hard to figure out, but she only smiles gratefully, and it makes Joy feel helpful for the first time in a while. It’s a pleasant feeling, spreading unexpected warmth through her.

She happily accompanies Mrs. Kim on her shopping trip, a satisfied smile on her face as she carries four full shopping bags on the way back. Her arms don’t particularly enjoy the workout, but it’s worth it to know she’ll be letting the old lady get a few restful evenings, especially now that the weather is quickly getting colder.

As usual, Mrs. Kim prepares tea for the both of them and they take their seats in the living room to have a little chat before Joy goes back to her lonely apartment. She’s taking an experimental sip of her watery chamomile tea when the old lady speaks up.

“You and that Irene girl had a bit of a lovers’ quarrel, didn’t you?” she asks casually, and Joy nearly chokes on her drink. She coughs a little, trying to blame it on the temperature of the drink, then blinks away the tears that began to form in her eyes.

“Excuse me?” she questions in a weak voice. Mrs. Kim couldn’t possibly… She didn’t hear them or anything, did she? Then again, the walls are so ridiculously thin. If Joy can hear the elevator doors opening from her living room, it wouldn’t be that unlikely that her next-door neighbours would catch some of her argument with Irene. Or some of what happened before. Oh god.

Mrs. Kim chuckles knowingly, which can’t be a good sign. “Well, friendships with women can be a lot more complicated than relationships with men,” she elaborates with a conspiratorial smile, sending a crashing wave of relief through Joy. At least she can always count on heteronormativity. “I noticed you haven’t been talking about her lately, and you look a little down. Did something happen, honey?”

Even if she can’t share the whole truth, she can at least talk a bit about it, right? It should help get it out of her mind, if anything. “We had kind of a stupid argument. She refuses to believe me on this one dumb thing and she’s doing all this pointless, unpleasant stuff because of it,” she huffs out. It’s cryptic more than vague, but Mrs. Kim seems happy to deal with what she’s given.

The old lady taps her finger against her chin as she mulls over Joy’s words. “So you’re angry at her because of it and she won’t change her mind?” Joy grimaces as she realizes that she didn’t explain it well at all.

“No, I actually… I said some mean things while we were arguing. Maybe hurtful things. And maybe… I’m the one who needs to apologize?” Yeah, that sounds more like it. “And thinking about it, I don’t think she’ll stop doing the unpleasant stuff even if she believes me,” she adds with a shrug. It’s not easy to admit, but it’s the truth. Even if Joy can convince Irene that there are no romantic feelings, the older woman is doing things her way for a reason. And she isn’t wrong that it simplifies things. It’s just… not ideal.

Mrs. Kim grins, seemingly oblivious to Joy’s internal turmoil, or maybe because of it. She probably knew that Joy needed to process some things. “Then why don’t you go to her and apologize? It sounds like the situation is easy enough to solve.”

She slumps against the sofa, careful not to spill any of her tea. Tapping on the cup, she purses her lips. If she goes to Irene and apologizes, even if she avoids the pitying eyes and manages to explain that she has no feelings for her, it still won’t solve their problem, will it? Because that’s not really the problem.

“But then things will just go back to how they were before.” And that’s what this is all about. It seems pretty obvious, in retrospect, but she doesn’t like the idea at all. She doesn’t like what might be behind it. Joy just knows that Irene shouldn’t be doing what she’s doing, not when she could be going for a much safer, more pleasant alternative. But she won’t.

Mrs. Kim nods, silent for a moment, and they both take advantage of the pause in their conversation to drink some of their tea. “Did I ever tell you that I loved to dance when I was younger?” The abrupt change of topic catches Joy by surprise, but she only shakes her head as she waits for the old lady to elaborate.

“I used to go dancing every week, it just made me feel so happy and carefree. And the late Mr. Kim, well, bless his soul but he had two left feet and they were on backwards. He’d do his best to keep up with me, but he’d get too embarrassed after two dances and go back to his seat.” She laughs a bit at that, and Joy joins her hesitantly. It feels a little weird to mock a dead man she never met, to be honest.

“And I didn’t want to spend the rest of the night bored stiff at a table, so when other men invited me to go dancing I’d say yes. After a while of this, Mr. Kim confronted me, told me he didn’t like me dancing with other men. He didn’t like the way they looked at me. Well, I told him he should just look at me, then. He’d see there was nothing to worry about,” she adds with a proud smirk. Joy wonders how wild Mrs. Kim was in her day. She certainly sounds independent.

“He didn’t look very convinced, so I got as serious as I could and I told him that dancing was something I couldn’t live without. I said I loved him, but I couldn’t give this up for him. There was no point in waiting for me to change, he could either take it or leave it.” She sounds almost fierce now, and Joy can imagine the intensity with which a young Mrs. Kim delivered this ultimatum to her boyfriend. “And he took it, thankfully. I would have been very sad if he hadn’t.”

That seems to be the end of the story, so Joy straightens up to wait for the moral, which Mrs. Kim helpfully provides. “That’s true for all relationships, dear. Sometimes, you’ll find that a person you like does something you dislike, something you might even hate. And then you should do what you did and tell them how you feel. But if they’re unwilling or unable to change, then you have a very simple decision to make. You either accept it and stick around or you move on.”

She doesn’t like the moral. She suspects that might be why Mrs. Kim prefaced it with that whole dancing story, to make it a little easier to swallow. A wrinkled hand settles on her own, so lightly that she barely feels it.

“I’m not telling you that you have to be alright with it, mind you. It’s perfectly acceptable to think it over and decide it’s too much for you. You’re a nice girl and you deserve to be surrounded by people who make you happy. I just want you to understand that it’s not fair to you or to Irene that you maintain this relationship in the hope that things will be different somewhere down the line.”

She knows it’s good advice. She knows that she has no right to keep getting mad at Irene for things that are none of her business. If she wants to be her friend, she has to actually accept the way things are, instead of ignoring it or sabotaging it or criticizing it. She just wishes it was a little easier.

(…)

She decides to take it. She’s sure anybody could see that one coming from a million miles away, but she can’t help it. It’s not just that she’s bored anymore. She actually likes Irene. And she misses her. She misses her stupid cackling laugh and the way she always fights for the remote like she couldn’t just squash Joy against the sofa with one hand. She misses her harmless glare whenever Joy makes a joke at her expense. She misses spending time with her.

And she realizes that she’s been making a big deal out of nothing. She wanted everything to go her way and disregarded what actually matters. Irene is her friend, and it doesn’t seem like she’s ever had much practice with the concept, but she always makes an effort, even willing to leave the house for Joy.

So she can sleep with whoever she wants. Really. After sarcastically repeating it so many times, Joy is having a hard time actually stating it with sincerity, but she definitely means it this time. Irene is an adult and she gets to make her own decisions, and as her friend, Joy should support her and encourage her and nothing else.

That’s why she slips down to the laundry room after she hears that familiar opening and closing of Irene’s front door. Feeling a little more nervous than she’d like to admit, she steps inside the small room, which is already filled with the hum of the washing machine, and clears her throat as nonthreateningly as possible. Irene still jumps in place, of course.

“See, when you said you’d fuck off I naively interpreted that as meaning that you would stay away,” the older woman mutters casually, the effect somewhat spoiled by the fact that she nearly jumped out of her skin only seconds ago.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m getting some vibes that you might be mad at me.” Irene turns to face her, but only so she can fix her with the full intensity of her glare. Joy can barely suppress the smile that springs to her face at the familiar sight. “What? Last time I thought you were angry, you just turned out to be horny, so excuse me if I don’t assume.”

And now there’s the eyeroll. All that’s missing is the huff. “Is that why you’re here, then? Are you back to harassing me in the laundry room?” Maybe the huff can wait until next time, since Irene actually does sound angry.

“Right. That’s not why I’m here. I came to apologize.” That seems to help smooth out the tense lines in Irene’s face, though not by much. Joy licks her suddenly dry lips. “I said some pretty mean things and I made an unfair judgment on your sex life. Obviously, there’s nothing wrong with having sex with lots of people, it’s a choice like any other and I shouldn’t have acted like it was anything less than that.”

Irene presses her lips together and the angry mask fades slightly, although she still doesn’t say anything. “And your thing about not sleeping with the same person too many times kind of makes sense, I guess. For the record, I don’t actually have feelings for you. But just in general, I can see why you’d prefer to avoid that kind of problem.”

“And it took you a month to figure that out?” Irene inquires simply, arms crossed in front of her tiny frame. The more she folds in on herself, the more Joy wants to simply pick her up and tuck her under her arm. How can such a petite woman contain so much stubbornness?

“No, I’m just… Really prickly about people assuming they know me. Or that they know how I feel. I don’t know, it’s like they don’t take me seriously or something.” Irene quirks her eyebrow, which is something else Joy missed. She used to find it insanely attractive, and she can’t deny that it still looks very good, but now there’s a certain comfort to its familiarity.

“Sounds like daddy issues, maybe,” Irene throws out, and it’s enough to snap Joy out of her sentimental reverie, because of course she’d say that, wouldn’t she? She bites back a comeback and only shrugs, as if to accept that she deserves a few jabs. Irene seems to get the hint. “You hurt my feelings,” the succubus finally says.

“I thought desire demons didn’t do feelings,” she quips, and the glare is back. This time she doesn’t bite back her smile. “Too early for jokes, got it. And I’m sorry. I really am. You didn’t deserve me snapping at you, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

She steps closer to Irene, trying to look as harmless as possible. “Look, you were right. I don’t know anything about succubi. You know what you need better than I ever could. And even if I did, I can’t micromanage your life. If you’re willing to forgive me, I promise I won’t meddle anymore, not unless I think you’re putting yourself in danger or something.”

Irene studies her dubiously, but the anger is gone, replaced with uncertainty. “And you won’t try to have sex with me again?”

“Didn’t even cross my mind.” Her companion seems far from convinced, her little snort reminding Joy that she can’t hide her attraction from a succubus.

“Okay, so my body reacts to the presence of a beautiful woman, sue me. That doesn’t mean I’m going to do anything about it.” She takes another step, and now she’s close enough that she could reach out for Irene’s hand if she wanted to. “So can you forgive me?” she requests instead, trying her best to let the regret she feels show through her eyes.

Irene looks away, but she still nods, and it’s enough to fill Joy up with happiness. In a single step, she wraps her arms around the small woman and pulls her into a hug, leaning down slightly so she can rest her chin on Irene’s shoulder.

“Why are you hugging me?” asks Irene’s muffled voice, her face pressed firmly against Joy although she could easily push her away if she wanted to.

“Because I missed you.”

“Oh.” For a beat, Irene is stiff against her, but then she relaxes and readjusts her position, letting her small arms wrap around Joy as her hands come to a rest on her back. “I missed you too.”


End file.
